Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Killjoy gives Cypher a funny look when he doesn’t stop by the coffee machine to pour his own cup in the morning. She can’t help but nudge him with her elbow and say, “Going decaf, old man? Is Sage really that worried about the caffeine?”

Cypher lets out a startled laugh. “Hah! No. I just don’t want any coffee today. I never liked the taste. Sage is out right now anyways.” He waves a hand dismissively, moving toward the fridge.

“Have you or Raze eaten yet?” He asks her. Killjoy splutters, knowing the implication of that innocent question clear as day. It may be an open secret, but it’s still supposed to be a secret, and Killjoy doesn’t intend to ignore the blatant implication of Raze being in her room.

(Funnily enough, Raze was. God, Killjoy doesn’t even want to know how he knew. That brings up questions she doesn’t want the answers to.)

“How would I know about Raze-” She tries to defend herself, a flush rising to her face.

“Oh, don’t play dumb. Is she awake yet? I heard music so I figured you two woke up together. Do you want me to make you breakfast or not?” Cypher puts his hands on his hips dramatically, huffing. Killjoy grumbles something she knows Cypher probably won’t be able to mentally translate and just nods.

“Lovely!” He turns, rummaging through the fridge for some eggs and butter, tsking when he presumably discovers that the last of the bacon was eaten sometime in the middle of the night. Killjoy sheepishly shrugs when he glances back at her and he just shakes his head in disapproval.

“Let the others know. I’ll see if I can make enough pancakes for everyone. I don't know if I can make eggs for everyone but.. Pancakes should be doable. We’re running low on eggs.” Cypher urges her, setting a pan on the stove and turns the heat up while he runs to get some pancake mix from the pantry.

Killjoy nods, hurrying off to let anyone who’s awake know. It takes a surprisingly long time to knock on everyone’s door, given the size of the building, so, by the time she’s walking back to the kitchen, there’s two plates of pancakes already laid out.

“Phoenix! Stop trying to- gah,” Cypher swats at Phoenix’s hand with the spatula he’s holding, trying to dissuade the man from even reaching out toward the plates. Phoenix flinches back, shooting Cypher a glare.

“Oh, come on, KJ said that you were gonna feed everyone.” Phoenix whines, probably not for the first time.

“Yes. And she and Raze are getting their plates first. You’re about to get the last pancakes I make if you keep insisting on bothering me..” Cypher grumbles, before catching Killjoy in the edge of his vision and startling slightly, before gesturing toward the plates exasperatedly.

“Take the food to Raze too for me, dear. If Phoenix bothers you, tell me. Don’t forget I have your search history, firebird.” Cypher speaks kindly to Killjoy, tone rather abruptly changing midway through to threaten the duelist who cringes at the reminder.

Phoenix passively puts his hands up, “Alright, alright . Stop.”

Cypher merely hums cheerily, blinking innocently. “That is more like it, friend,” He sing-songs playfully, just to see Phoenix grimace.

(Killjoy notes, across all her trips to the kitchen just to socialize with the people there, Cypher doesn’t make a plate for himself. She forgets to ask when she notices he’s leaving back to his room.)

—————————————————————————————

Brimstone finds something odd , as he checks the weaponry in the range at KAY/O’s request. KAY/O reports a missing weapon; in specific, Cypher’s silenced pistol. Brimstone can’t find it either. He figured Cypher has probably just taken it to add something to it- as agitating as it is, the agents keep taking weapons out of the range for one petty reason or another.

He notes to himself to call Cypher to ask about it after dinner. A nagging feeling tells him this is too strange.

He brushes it off. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s excessively worried about someone. Cypher has proven time and time again that, as odd as he acts, he’ll be alright. He trusts Sage’s call that he’s been getting better lately.

“Sova,” Brimstone calls out when he sees the man as he leaves the range, “Can you make sure to bring dinner to Cypher?”

Sova’s expression sours momentarily before he nods. “Of course.”

“Tell him to return his pistol to the range, too, when you see him. Tell him he’s not above regulations.”

Something on Sova’s face flickers with alarm, which Brimstone easily writes off as Sova’s suspicion of the man.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. He’s not going to kill anyone.” Brimstone huffs a laugh and Sova looks away, mumbling something disgruntled before walking off, face a shade pinker than before at being called out.

—————————————————————————————

It’s a premeditated decision that Cypher doesn’t think about. He double checks that all the gun has is one bullet, makes sure the safety is off, locks the door behind him.

He doesn’t think too hard about it. He mills about his room as usual, disinterested in any of the gadgets around him. He stacks his extra tripwires and cameras into a box, moved aside. Any trinkets or personal projects he was working on are tossed carelessly into the trash can next to his desk. He doesn’t have any of the other agent’s utility; he finished repairing Sova’s drone earlier this morning and returned it this afternoon.

He scribbles down some passwords on some spare paper. Passwords to the security system, passwords to anything he can think of that is locked behind one. All neatly and ordered for ease of assigning it all to someone new.

He doesn’t think too much about who’ll replace him. He doesn’t want to.

(he doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen after he’s dead. he doesn’t need to know.)

In theory, his plan has a deadline; a specific time this very night. But his nerves flare up, so he decides against looking at the time, instead just checking everything is in order. And then retreats to the bathroom, carefully unbuckling the clasps of his coat to neatly stack his coat on the counter, mask and gloves following close behind.

He won’t waste perfectly good clothes. Much less ruin the expensive suit he wears. He changes to a black turtleneck he likes and dark pants which hopefully won’t stain with blood too badly.

He locks the bathroom door too. For good measure, he presumes. He’d move something in front of it if he could, just to make sure Sage doesn’t reach him in time, but in theory? She’s out on a mission for two weeks right now.

They won’t get to him. May not even notice until she gets back and does regular checkups. He’s not worried.

He knows they won’t find him. He’s been so careful. He’s waited so patiently for this moment, for this opportunity to fall into his hands.

Then, finally, he finds himself sitting on the floor, gun in hand, refusing to think as he settles his finger on the trigger, turning the gun on himself.

Looking down the barrel of the gun makes him nervous so he closes his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s stared down the barrel of a gun, but, he’s never been the one holding it. He’s never.. Done this . Never thought to take it this far .

( once , his mind whispers, not long after Nora’s death. he nearly recoils at the memory of that time of his life, feeling nauseous.)

“I'm so sorry. ” He says to no one in particular, voice thready for a reason even he isn’t sure of. He’s not scared. Excited, maybe, even. It’s a blend of emotions he’s never felt before in his life, whether it be for the best or not.

Guilt is the most prevalent one. He wants to laugh, or maybe cry, at how familiar guilt is to him. He tries to force a laugh out of himself, but he can’t, instead, he just feels numb.

(how selfish of him to take the easy way out now?)

He doesn’t breathe as he tips his head back, refusing to let nerves get a hold on him now. Doesn’t dare . The barrel of the gun is cold as it pressed up against the underside of his chin. It makes him shiver.

He doesn’t hear the crackle of the gun before it goes dark, barely feels the flash of pain before it goes dark.

—————————————————————————————

Sova has a weird feeling as he stands at Cypher’s door, a plate of food in his hands, fork precariously balanced while he knocks.

There’s no response.

He knows Cypher is in there. He’s so sure of that. The man hasn't gone to his office, nor workshop. He checked earlier, before being sent to find the man.

Something about Cypher was off when he rushed Sova's drone back to him, seeming frazzled. He was worried even then. He fears there's a chance he was right to be worried.

“Cypher. I have dinner. Open the door and take it. Brimstone’s orders.” Sova huffs, drumming a pattern on the steel door.

( tell him to return his pistol when you see him .)

That odd feeling turns to concern quickly. As Killjoy passes by, she pauses.

“Is he not answering?” She asks him, “He’s not in the range, or his workshop, or office. I was looking for him because I needed help with my turret..” She trails off, eying the food in his hands.

“You were bringing him dinner?” There’s a note of humor in her voice, a smile slowly crossing her face.

“Brimstone told me to.” Sova immediately defends himself, feeling heat rise to his checks at the audacity of being accused of doing this willingly.

“Maybe he went to bed early.” Killjoy shrugs. “Leave him be.”

“ No. ” Sova says, maybe a bit too quickly, and shakes his head. “we both know he’s not asleep. Something’s.. wrong. Get Brimstone.” He finally decides, looking around for something even he isn’t sure of before holding the plate of food out to Killjoy to free his hands.

“ What? ” Killjoy’s eyebrows knit in concern but she takes the plate anyway. “What’s wrong?”

Sova doesn’t want to say what he thinks. The possibility of Cypher offing himself seems uncomfortably high, but- to Killjoy? He’d rather lie. “Get Brimstone.” He repeats, firmer.

And so she hurries off, calling him as she goes to explain that Sova needs his help getting into Cypher’s room for some reason.

While he waits, he may as well try again. He knocks, incessantly, before kicking at the door and hissing a curse when there’s obviously no response. “Open the door, Cypher. Now. I know you’re in there.”

But yet again, there's no response, and while Sova may not like the man, the idea of Cypher being dead behind that door- he kicks it again, helpless, worry nagging at the back of his mind. Fortunately, Brimstone and Killjoy show up, Brimstone furrowing his brows at Sova.

“What’s the problem? I can’t just let you in because Cypher decided to go to bed early.” Brimstone drawls.

“Brimstone, he has a gun and the door is locked.” Sova reminds, agitated, “Open the damn door.”

Brimstone blinks, hesitating before deciding he’s concerned as well. The door easily unlocks with the use of Brimstone’s keycard, clearly designed to overwrite the password system. The room is.. Empty. The bed is made. Cypher’s desk is cleared off. A lamp on the bedside table is still on.

Sova’s eyes turn toward the bathroom door. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about breaking that down, so he knocks again, “Cypher. Cypher, are you okay? Open the door. Please.” He tries, feeling awkward under the eyes of Brimstone and Killjoy.

“ Cypher. ” He hisses. “This is childish.”

It’s so quiet in the silence after they could hear a pin drop. He takes out his hair clip, looking at the simple lock. It’s one that can be rather easily unlocked from the outside, so he uses the edge of his hair clip to unlock it, brushing his hair back over his shoulders to keep it out of the way as he cautiously peers in through a crack, wary in case for some reason Cypher is just ignoring them.

His eyes meet the closed ones of a man he’s never seen before in all black. For a moment, he’s so stunned by the sight of a complete stranger he freezes. Then he pushes his way in, seeing the dent in the wall behind Cypher and the blood sprayed up the wall, realizing this is what Cypher looks like.

A thin, fragile looking man with dark olive skin and deep eye bags, and patches of paler skin around his eyes and mouth.

(Sova stares for longer than he means to, completely taken aback. The severity of the situation slips his mind, morbid curiosity taking a forefront place in his mind before it clicks in his mind what exactly Cypher has done to himself.)

He looks almost peaceful, with one hand in his lap and the other limply laying to his side, the gun having clattered a short distance from him.

“Cypher!” He shouts, finding himself kneeling next to Cypher before he’s processed fully what happened. He checks frantically for a pulse.

(Sova wants to throw up. The blood running down Cypher’s neck is still warm as he ignores it to press his fingers to Cypher’s neck. It’s, decidedly, the worst thing he’s ever seen and felt in his life. He shudders.)

“He’s alive,” Sova shouts back at Brimstone, “Get Skye. Get Skye right now . We need her.” He orders, and Brimstone, seemingly frozen behind him at the sight as well, all but bolts down the hallway shouting for Skye.

Killjoy stares with wide eyes, before she stumbles forward to get a better look.

“Cypher, oh, god , what have you done ..? No, no, no..” Killjoy whispers, panicked.

“Go, Killjoy. Leave . Now.” Sova urges, unable to look back at her as he takes the gun from Cypher’s hands, checking that it’s not loaded. To his surprise, it isn’t. He turns the safety on anyways before putting it to the side, trying to think of how to deal with a bullet wound of this severity.

(Sova knows basic first aid for wounds. Typically, stitches or packing the wound works just fine. Sova has no idea what to do about this. )

Killjoy barely bites back a noise of distress before rushing out, afraid to be in the way and knowing she can’t bear to look at the sight in front of her too much longer.

“Cypher, do you hear me? Cypher! ” Sova wants to shake the man, but he’s scared of making it worse. Instead, he frantically checks Cypher over for other wounds as best he can, finding that his own hands are shaking as he does so.

Cypher’s eyelids twitch, barely flitting open. Just open enough for Sova’s blue eyes to meet Cypher’s brown ones. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t make a sound, simply slips back into unconsciousness.

“Skye! Skye, I need you here now !” Sova shouts, feeling his panic reignite at the reminder the man in front of him is still alive, still , for some haunting reason, alive .

Skye comes into the room, practically knocking into walls as she frantically takes her place next to Sova, desperately trying to heal the man in front of her.

A choked noise tears from Cypher’s throat, followed by a gasp of pain as his eyes blearily open. There’s panic in his eyes as he gradually comes to awareness, feeling the energy of Skye’s healing go through him.

“I’ve got you, mate, shit.. it’s alright, it’s okay.. Calm..” Skye tries to soothe without breaking her concentration, putting her hands over Cypher’s wrists to prevent him from moving.

He doesn’t fight her, staring blankly ahead before his eyes flit shut again. He spasms as he coughs up blood, shaking from the pain, then falls still once more.

Sova tries to ignore it. “Skye, how do you..? What do you need ?” He asks, wanting to help, knowing that Skye can’t heal him forever.

Brimstone pushes gauze into Sova’s hands, figuring Sova will probably do a better job of helping than he will. He leaves a box of various supplies he’d fetched from the medical bay, backing out because he doesn’t know what to do either.

Skye’s hands tremble, and she mutters a series of swears under her breath. “I don’t know what to do. I.. I don’t know how long I can.. Call Sage. Brimstone, let her know to get back soon but- I need- I need her help .” She looks to him desperately.

And so, Sova thoughtlessly does, wincing at the blood that smears across the screen. He wipes it off on his pants instead, ignoring the disgust that tells him to not in the back of his mind.

To their shared relief, Sage guides them through what to do as best she can with the shaky view she has.

It takes three grueling hours to bring him to the medical bay, stop the bleeding, and stabilize him with the help of Skye’s healing to stop the worst of the bleeding. It’s a miracle Skye’s healing can do so much for him, as they don’t have the supplies or experience for an impromptu surgery.

Sova doesn’t remember much of the process. Just Skye’s stressed instructions, desperately whispering that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, looking at the viscera and gore on his hands and sleeves under the gloves he put on once they began to work on the wound for sterilization.

It’s only when Killjoy hugs him in the hallway after the fact while he’s standing still, horrified at the vivid memories of Cypher staring back at him with glassy eyes that he snaps back to reality.

He doesn’t hug her back. He needs to clean his hands.

(The blood has long since dried on his hands. He flexes them and watches it flake off under the clear plastic gloves, feeling sick.)

“Thank you for trying. Thank you so much, Sova.” She whispers, burying her face in his chest. “E-even if- if..” she trails off, voice breaking as she bites back a sob, not daring to say the obvious: which is, the possibility he is too far gone for even Sage to save.

“He’ll be okay.” Sova manages to say softly in response. He truthfully has no idea if Sage will be back in time to keep him alive, let alone fix the physical damage done.

Killjoy sobs and he lets her, wishing he could hug her back, but refusing to accidentally get any of the blood on her. God forbid it be anything worse than blood, either, he- he isn’t so sure it’s just blood on his hands.

In truth, Sova doesn’t want to know. Barely wants to confront the fact Cypher was suicidal and no one notices, barely wants to confront the fact the first time he sees Cypher’s face it’s because the man had the bright idea to blow his own brains out.

He doesn’t want to think about any of it .

When Killjoy sheepishly composes herself and thanks him again, promising to check on him in the morning, he merely nods thoughtlessly.

She catches the faraway look on his face. “It’ll be okay.” She tries to comfort him, awkwardly, but he can’t help but appreciate the attempt.

“I know. I..” Sova inhales shakily, realizing he’s nearly dizzy from how long he’s been holding his breath. “I need time to think. Have a.. good night.”

Killjoy nods, and with that Sova returns to his room.

While Sova has always been impartial to cold showers for the fact they can shock him awake in the morning and refresh his mind, tonight, he opts for a hot shower. Just short of something he thinks may actually burn his skin.

He hopes the heat will wash away whatever scar he’s sure this night is going to leave in his mind. Maybe wash away the concerning anger he feels that the damned spy had the audacity to try - he feels terrible just for that thought, but at the same time- how could Cypher think that it was that hopeless? When so many people cared?

He scrubs at his hands desperately. It doesn’t wash away the sensation of warm blood running down the sides of his hands, or the scent of iron. No amount of lavender-scented soap gets rid of it.

He throws anything that was stained with Cypher’s blood away. It’s one thing to know it’s his own blood staining his clothes, another for it to remind him of finding Cypher after his failed suicide attempt.

It doesn’t help his unease. He struggles to sleep that night. When he does, he wakes up restless an hour later, swearing his hands are sticky with blood, and the only thing that helps is to turn on the lights and wash his hands again to rid himself of the phantom sensation.

Unable to sleep, he decides to resign himself to the waiting room attached to the medical bay, finding Skye passed out in one of the chairs.

He doesn’t disturb her, taking great care to be quiet as he sits across the room from her, arms neatly squared across his chest as he stares at the door he knows Cypher is behind until he slips back into a fitful rest.

—————————————————————————————

Chapter Text

Warm yellow lights stream through the windows around him. It's sometime in autumn- when the breeze is just enough to feel with the windows open. Even though they keep them open most of the year, its rare he gets to feel the breeze. It's comfortable, familiar.

(He doesn't know why, but he hasn't felt it in so long he pauses to just bask in the feeling.)

There’s the sound of a knife on a cutting board that he registers after a moment. Amir looks back over his shoulder from stirring the pot in front of him to catch a glimpse of Nora as she cuts the vegetables for their dinner.

(she takes his breath away, still, funnily enough. He shuffles in embarrassment at that realization, and apparently she hears him because she turns around.)

“You’re crying,” She says when she looks back at him. She is, too, from the onion she's currently cutting. He laughs at the way the tears run down her face, and she smiles at him in return, stifling the urge to laugh with him.

“Not.” Amir decides to argue, pausing to wipe the tears away with his hands. She puts the knife down to step forward, pressing against him. He holds her waist with one hand, the other steadying the spoon to hopefully balance against the edge of the pot.

The sauce smells of something sweet. Or is that her perfume? He can’t tell in the moment, not paying nearly enough attention to differentiate between them, and too close to Nora to focus on anything but her anyways.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He murmurs, leaning in- he intends to kiss her, but then there’s the sound of the spoon slipping, and he registers it passing right through his fingers before he can catch it.

They both pause before she giggles, stifling laughter as best she can.

The spoon, having slipped from his hand, rests in the center of the bubbling sauce, barely visible through it. Amir stares for a second before swearing.

“Look what you’ve done!” He complains, playfully pushing her away, turning to hover over the pot and think about how exactly he plans to retrieve the spoon.

“That’s what you get for staring.” She elbows him through her laughter and he just shakes his head disapprovingly.

“Baba!” A small voice calls out, and his head whips toward the couch, seeing Salma sitting on the edge, smiling at him, and then, loses balance and falls forward. Both he and Nora drop everything to run over, but it’s in vain as she hits the floor and cries.

“Oh, dear, hey, hey! Look at me. It’s okay.” Amir stifles his internal panic at seeing the bright red of a nosebleed, kneeling as he gently tips her head up to get a better look to see if it's just a nosebleed. Nora sees the blood and wordlessly hurries to get something to wipe it up with.

Salma looks at him through teary eyes, clutching her nose. Her hands are stained red as he gently dissuades her from holding her nose, not wanting her to hurt herself more and to get a closer look, ideally without her shielding away from him.

“Shh. Mama is going to fix you up, okay?” He tells her sweetly. “Oh, baby.. Be more careful! We don’t want you hurting yourself..” He scolds softly, and she nods as he leans in to kiss her forehead.

Nora comes running back with some tissues and a small ice pack, sighing as she sits next to him and scoops Salma into her lap, gently wiping away the blood with the tissues and giving Salma the ice pack.

“Can you hold this against your nose for me? Gently. It’ll help, I promise.” Nora gently helps Salma hold it against her hurt nose, and Salma makes a noise at the cold and pulls away.

“Nuh, don’t wanna.” She whines, turning her head. “It’s cold.”

“Just let her, it’s okay. If the swelling gets worse, then you can try again.” Amir murmurs to dissuade Nora from pressing the matter. “Let me.. Get back to dinner. You can watch Salma.”

Nora frowns at him, but just nods anyway before going to soothe Salma. He stands, going back to the kitchen and trying to find some tongs to get the spoon out of the sauce, when his phone off on the counter rings.

“Who’s calling you now?” Nora asks, skeptical.

“Let me check.” Amir says, leaning over to get a better look. The contact is unknown, but some curiosity prompts him to accept the call, leaving it on speaker since he finds himself relatively unworried.

“Cypher?” He doesn’t recognize the voice at first, narrowing his eyes. Nora tenses at the usage of his work name, covering Salma’s ears.

“End the call.” She tells him firmly. “Or take it outside. Out of this home.”

“Cypher! I know you’re there, god dammit, please,” Russian accent. It clicks in his head: Sova. He isn't sure why Sova is calling him right now. He's clearly not in the protocol, isn't he?

(He wonders to himself if Nora and Sova would get along. He doubts so; Nora is suspicious of strangers, even as far as Cypher's concerned as the paranoid one of them both. Sova surely would find himself out of his depth to interact with the woman.)

Nora’s face scrunches up, not recognizing the words: He belatedly remembers that she never learned much English when she was around. He didn’t know much either back then. Amir stands there, momentarily disoriented.

He shouldn't know Sova. Nora never heard the man- Nora would never have met Sova because she was dead decades before he joined VALORANT. His mind lags behind each realization, leaving him puzzled as to how he was getting a call from Sova right now.

(Nora is dead, his mind finally remembers. It’s a thought that hits him with as much force as a shot.)

“Nora?” He calls out, looking back. She’s not there when he looks- both of them. They’re both gone. The warm light previously having filtered through the curtains and the breeze is gone, leaving dingy celling lights as the only source of light.

(dead, dead, dead- he knows they are but something in his mind screams that he can still save them-)

The house is silent. There’s no dinner on the stove. It reeks of blood and something sterile. He misses the scent of spices already.

“Salma! Nora!” He shouts, moving to run out toward the couch where the two of them had just been in front of. A desperate bid to stop them from leaving, not like this, to chase the peace he had for moments before it had been ripped away from him with a moment of complacency.

(He's sorry, he wants to scream, he was so careful. It was the one time he wasn't that it all came crumbling down around him. The one mistake- he was so sorry-)

Instead of taking a step forward, he jolts up from a laying-down position and crashes face-first into someone else and gets a mouthful of fur when he opens his mouth to shout.

The light is blinding. He feels blind. The headache that immediately hits him is terrible and he barely manages a weak groan in response to the series of swears Sova lets out as he recoils, having been practically headbutt by Cypher.

Cypher splutters, coughing, feeling the sensation of fibers on his tongue that was a unique sensory experience that he hopes to never experience again.

"Cypher!" Sova hisses when he composes himself, sounding a little more than just startled. Cypher doesn't care, truthfully, busy reorienting himself to life.

(in Cypher’s honest defense, he’s a bit shaken by crashing nose-first into Sova’s chest, too.)

When he manages to blink through the bright lights, the first thing he sees is Sage hovering to his left, worry all over her face.

“Sage?” He croaks, voice hoarse and quiet.

(he’s alive, his mind marvels. How?)

“What were you thinking?” She hisses at him, harsh, but he doesn’t necessarily blame her. He stares blankly at her for several seconds while his brain catches up.

“Cypher, what the fuck?” Sova snaps, drawing his attention to the man to his right. Sage glowers at him and he steps back, but glares at Cypher nonetheless.

It is the most profanity he’s ever heard Sova say out loud in ages, disregarding any swears from equipment malfunctions.

Like the absolute fool he is, he can’t help but smile, finding amusement in that fact despite himself. The way the scowl on Sova’s face deepens makes him realize that he’s unmasked.

“Cypher?” Sage questions, appalled by his smile- or possibly the way it instantly fell when Sova reacted. “Are you okay?”

“My mask.” Cypher manages to blurt, sitting there, brows furrowed. “I..”

“Yes, you took it off and we had bigger priorities than putting it back on when you were dying.” Sova says without missing a beat, crossing his arms. Then he sighs, running a hand through his surprisingly messy hair and in a weaker voice, “why? Why would you..”

“She wasn’t supposed to come back yet.” Cypher croaks, looking toward Sage. It’s more than he should have said. Some part of him doesn’t care.

(he doesn’t even know what to feel right now. He can’t think through the headache.)

“So you meant to die.” Sova sputters in disbelief, “You were just going to kill yourself like that?”

“Sova, stop. Leave him be. Get out if you’re just going to antagonize him.” Sage finally intervenes, to Cypher’s relief.

Sova frowns, and, though Cypher cannot fathom why Sova would be here to begin with, he’s grateful that Sova storms out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

(Sage hardly lets people visit when people were revived. It was a rule to let the wounded rest, let alone those who weren’t close. He wonders why Sova was here at all. Surely the man had better things to do- and, Cypher wasn't too keen on bickering right now either.)

Sage however, is a different problem as she stares at him with a frown.

“Cypher..” She starts softly. “Why would you go this far? Haven’t I made it clear we can help?”

Cypher looks away from her, shrugging as best he can and laying back down.

The walls are a dull, warm green. There's a shelf with little trinkets. Mostly wooden carvings of various colors. He chooses to look at them instead. It helps him pointedly avoid looking toward the bloody gauze stacked in a small trashcan which initially caught his eye.

“I don’t know. I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” He murmurs, finding himself strangely numb. “I'm sorry.”

(he knows so well that ‘sorry’ is not what he should say. then again, he doesn’t think there’s any way he could justify himself.)

“Cypher.” Sage’s voice sharpens, and she lays a hand over one of his. “This is serious. You can’t just.. Apologize for this. You.. you shot yourself. And if we had been any less fortunate, you’d have died. You were lucky to make this recovery. Lucky that you won’t scar. So, so lucky.”

(lucky, it seems, holds a different meaning to Sage than himself, Cypher notes.)

“I'm tired,” He tries to say. His voice shakes, and his eyes are hot with tears he realizes have been waiting to fall. “I'm so tired.” he whispers, rolling over to throw his arms over his head in an attempt to block her out.

The headache piercing through his skull hurts and he doesn’t have the energy for this conversation. He can’t even think straight, he can’t remember why he did it, he can’t do this right now.

“Please. Not now. I'm so sorry. I-i can’t.” His voice breaks this time, and Sage steps back. He doesn’t see her face, doesn’t look to check. He knows it’s a frown.

“Rest, Cypher. Okay? I.. I’ll give you time. No visitors.” And with that, Sage leaves quickly, not wanting to intrude. He knows it’s a temporary reprieve, but it’s the most generous Sage could be with him given the situation.

He stifles the sobs that bubble up in his chest as best he can. It hurts to cry, it’s too loud and the shaking makes it all worse, but it’s impossible to not cry, horrified that he’s alive and that god knows how many people have seen him.

He’s so sorry. The guilt is going to be what kills him next, surely, if not the grief that eats him alive. He thinks of Nora, of Salma, of the smell of saffron and something sweet- it’s too much.

Exhaustion wins anyways eventually, too tired to cry and too exhausted to stay awake or want company.

(he hopes, he prays, anything he can, that he won’t dream of her. he doesn’t think he could take it right now.)

—————————————————————————————

Red. Crimson blood on the floor, smeared footsteps leading to and from the door, glittering in the low orange light flitting through the windows.

The bodies laying in front of him were never supposed to be the victims.

His Nora. Salma.

He stares, numb. It’s too late, and he knows it.

“Im home, Nora,” He says, voice cracking dryly. “I'm home.”

(it isn’t home anymore.)




Cypher awakes with a ragged gasp, the room plunged in darkness. His headache having apparently lessened at some point in the night, it leaves him just sitting up with a racing heart, unsure entirely of his surroundings.

He itches at the stubble of his beard, blinking in the dark to adjust his eyes until he can at least somewhat make out the shapes of the objects around him.

Though Cypher is absolutely sure there must be some kind of ban on him from entering the range, he is also aware he can fully play dumb should he be caught.

There’s an IV attached to him that he pulls at. Stupid and reckless, yes, but he manages to rip it out. He swears he’ll disinfect it in his own room later, promises to come back to Sage to assure her he’s not looking to try again but- he’s restless and surely they’ll understand.

(truthfully, he’s just accepting the scolding he’ll get for this. He’s sorry for Sage’s sanity, but his own sanity is going to crumble if he stays stuck in the stupid dark room.)

He stumbles his way to his feet, unsteady, and practically blind, but manages to find the door out before he smacks into any walls.

Getting down the base hallways is easier. The dim emergency lights along the hallways are a life-saver as he gets used to walking again, notably a bit wobbly. He hopes that isn’t a sign of nerve damage that couldn’t be healed.. he hasn’t exactly been given a description of his current diagnosis.

It's slightly more probable to chalk it up to his state of exhaustion anyways. His hands shake every now and then and he has to make a conscious effort to steady them.

It’s a familiar sight to take to the armory before entering the range, flicking light switches on as he goes along to avoid the dark.

(he’s not scared, he swears, but his vision threatens to betray him and he keeps startling at the mechanical hum of the walls around him. He keeps the lights on.)

He considers picking a rifle, but it would be too loud even with all the soundproofing. He’d take his ghost from the armory, but, ah , even he feels weird about that.

(he doesn’t know how he feels about the fact he shot himself. he doesn’t really think he wants to think about it, truly, so he’ll push that thought aside and simply default to whatever makes the weird feeling about it go away. )

He settles for the classic pistol. It’s fairly low caliber (at least, relative to his options) and light. Exactly what he’s looking for.

He sets the bots on easy. It’s not about testing his skill, it's merely a monotonous activity to keep his attention.

The first shot he fires makes him flinch badly . It’s a shocking reaction after all the time he’s spent being shot, shooting, and just generally being around guns.

It’s an instinctive reaction of fear .

(He remembers raising the gun in both of his hands, shaking , saying, “ Stop .” in a thin voice, pleading, desperate to not use it. His sister, cowering close behind him- small hands hooked in the fabric of his sleeves, her quick panicked breaths behind him . He remembers that night so vividly as the man in front of him, in a rage, reached for the gun in his hands. For him. For her- He pulled the trigger and couldn't hear properly for days afterward.)

(one dead. Assumed to be a suicide by authorities, ignored and swept under the rug, not worth the time to investigate. He was known to be a terrible man- a raging alcoholic with an abusive streak to his wife and children. Not that authorities cared to intervene at the time. Amir’s first kill.)

It’s a sobering memory that catches him off guard, one he hasn’t thought about in decades. Before Nora. Before -

He doesn’t let himself keep thinking. He can’t . Tears well up in his eyes and he has to put the gun down while he wipes them away, feeling ridiculous to nearly cry over a gunshot when his entire career at this moment is built on his ability to kill and track .

It doesn't matter. It was so long ago. He's a grown man, and, if he had to do it again? He'd take his time. He's not scared. Not anymore.

He just needs to convince his limbs to obey that train of thought.

Once he manages to focus and tears no longer blur his vision, he reaches for the gun again.

(Some part of him fights it. Some part of him wants to back away and flee. To where ? Cypher’s not sure yet. He ignores that panic and mumbles a swear under his breath.)

He steels his nerves and better prepares himself for the second shot, sighing out the tension in his frame afterward, waiting for his shaking and shuddering to subside patiently before taking aim again.

He doesn’t flinch the third time. The brief panic settles quickly, leaving the uninteresting task of aiming and shooting at stationary targets as they enter his sight, over and over.

It’s something to focus on, he figures. He’d rather be bored than shaking from a nightmare.

(Bright red on the floorboards, the smell of gunpowder and the fading scent of saffron , dull green eyes staring back at him lifeless -)

It’s marginally better than nothing. He may as well take what he can get in the means of self regulation of his own emotions.

God knows he needs it. And at this point, can he really keep telling himself to just keep going? How much longer does he think he can really keep trying to hold out without trying to do something? Anything.

(he suspects the answer is that he just can’t anymore. given his recent predicament? he really doesn’t think he can keep ignoring how he feels.)

Cypher huffs a laugh to himself, but it’s not funny. Not even to him. It throws off his aim anyways when he laughs.

Chapter Text

When Sova wakes up from a nightmare, his automatic response is to take a cold shower, redress and shave, all routine. He’d go for a run, but a glance at his phone tells him it’s some ridiculous hour like three in the morning, so he doesn’t.

(it’s mostly out of worry for the motion sensing cameras stationed around. God forbid he have to explain what he was doing stalking around the perimeter of the base at this hour.)

The range is the next best thing. Bow and arrows in tow, he finds himself at an open door and the lights of the range already on.

And then, he sees Cypher .

( Amir ? Is Cypher still Cypher without the mask? Sova decides he is not planning to ask the man anytime soon and thus, it is irrelevant.)

For a moment, his eyes zero in on the gun in Cypher’s hands. There’s blood smeared up the side of one of his forearms, and the crackle of a shot makes him freeze with a straight shot of fear up his spine that nearly has him lunging for the man to stop him .

(Sova barely restrains himself, knowing he’d be more likely to startle Cypher into actually shooting himself than to stop a suicide. It doesn’t help with the strong temptation in his mind though.)

“ Goddammit .” Cypher grunts, realizing on the next shot that the gun has just jammed. There’s a third empty click that Cypher braces for that never comes, and he grumbles again. “Blasted thing.. What’s wrong now ?”

“Cypher, put it down.” Sova snaps, finally finding the courage to approach, storming closer. Cypher spins around with wide eyes, gun snapping up to aim at Sova before he just as quickly aims it away, spluttering a series of curses in Arabic.

“ Sova ! Gh, don’t scare me like that. My friend, what are you doing awake?” Cypher tries to retort, ignoring his demand.

“Put it down. Put the gun down .” Sova just sees that night in his head, the blood down Cypher’s neck and the limp way his head lolled forward.

The dull way Cypher’s eyes flitted open to gaze at him, unseeing despite his consciousness.

(His hands, doused in the blood of a fellow agent. In Cypher’s blood. Sova had never liked blood even if he could tolerate it just fine to gut an animal, but knowing the source of it was a person made it so much worse.)

Cypher just backs away when Sova steps closer. He bumps into the control panel for the range, looking increasingly worried as Sova draws closer. “ What ? Sova? I.. it’s just jammed? I know how to fix it. Im not going to-”

“ Cypher. ” Sova’s voice is harsh and he takes it forcefully from Cypher’s hands. Cypher lets him, recognizing something panicked in Sova’s expression. Cypher passively puts his hands up in surrender, brows furrowed as Sova unloads the gun right there, unjamming it, and then walking away to return it to the armory.

“I wasn’t done with that! Sova, you can’t just kick me out so you can train!” Cypher raises his voice in protest, realizing where Sova’s going and trying to follow.

“You shot yourself.” Sova hisses, whipping around to face him with a look just short of rage. Cypher steps back, startled as they stare.

“I wasn’t going to do it again .” He defends himself weakly, processing what this argument is about.

“I don’t care . I'm not finding your body again . Killjoy should never have to see you like that again. Never .” Sova’s voice breaks, and Cypher finally notices the tremble to the man’s hands. As soon as Sova himself realizes it, he goes still again. As if he was unaffected.

(Cypher alternates between clinging to the idea that Sova cares, and the idea that Sova merely wants to comfort him by tricking him to think of such. It leaves him unsteady and uncomfortable.)

“Sova, I -” Cypher barely knows what to say. Sorry seems insignificant for the whole shooting himself issue, and he doesn’t know Sova all that well so there's no use justifying himself.

It’s not like Sova has ever cared much for his justifications anyways. He knows he’s wrong. But he may as well double down.

(If he acts so sure of himself, maybe, maybe they won’t see that he doesn’t believe what he’s fighting for either.)

(It’s a distant cry for help that he knows won’t be heard.)

“ Stop ,” and Sova won’t let him speak anyways, so he’ll save his breath and Sova’s time. “And come with me.” The hunter adds, eyes narrowing as he glances down toward one of Cypher’s arms.

Cypher merely raises an eyebrow. “My eyes are up here.” He manages a thin smile, taunting. Sova’s gaze flits up and he furrows his brows in agitation in response.

“You’re bleeding . You ripped out the IV, didn’t you?” It’s not a question. Sova doesn’t wait for a response and Cypher decides he won’t grace that observation with an answer as they walk. Sova puts the gun in its rightful place and any unused bullets away, and then walks off, pausing expectantly to wait for Cypher.

Cypher considers not following, of course. But the moment he pauses, Sova turns to glare at him.

(Either Sova was watching him from the beginning, or his footsteps are louder than he thought for Sova to hear the moment they stopped.)

“Don’t drag your feet, spy . Sage wants you on bedrest. You’re explaining this to her in the morning.” Sova warns him, staring as he waits for Cypher to walk alongside him as opposed to about three paces behind him.

Cypher grimaces, shuffling in place with no desire to return to the cramped medical room. He’s uncomfortable enough as is, and he has his doubts whether anyone has remembered to clean the blood in his bathroom. Beyond the obvious desire to clean it up before it rots, he doesn’t think he necessarily wants to be there again yet anyways.

“Cypher.” Sova snaps, but then his expression softens after a moment, worry settling into his expression. “I'm making sure you actually clean the wound . You’re at a high risk of infection right now while you recover. Sage cannot undo the amount of stress your body is under.”

“I can handle it just fine. Please. I do not need to be babysat.” Cypher grumbles, ducking his head and trying to hurry on past Sova to locate the medkit they have in the range in one of the storage closets. Sova grabs his wrist before he can rush past him.

Sova huffs disapprovingly, narrowing his eyes. Cypher tries to tug his wrist back, but Sova doesn’t budge.

(Cypher notes Sova is gentle. The moment Cypher stops trying to squirm free, he takes hold of Cypher’s sleeve instead.)

“Now that I have your attention, I want you to come to the kitchen with me. You need a meal. You were unconscious yesterday and haven't eaten in far too long.” Sova declares, fixing Cypher with a stern look.

“I'm not hungry.” Cypher defaults to. At the skeptical look that earns him, “I died, no? How do you expect me to have an appetite?”

“You didn’t die.” Sova informs Cypher, after a pause. “Lived. Skye kept you stable. I.. nevermind. We kept you alive until Sage could properly tend to your injuries.”

Cypher falters slightly. Sova can easily read the discomfort on his face, and disregards it. “Let me tend to my arm.” Cypher bargains, “then I will follow you. I do not need help.”

Sova lets go, but not without great reluctance. He trails close behind Cypher as Cypher tries to quickly locate the medkit and disinfectant, treating it as a mild scrape as he tends to it, ignoring the looming presence just over his shoulder as best he can minus the goosebumps that break across his skin.

It’s not much worse than one, if maybe a little bit less severe than even that - disinfectant and a bandaid work plenty fine and are the easiest way to treat it, and Cypher doesn’t want to be dramatic and bandage it fully for a minor cut that wasn’t even bleeding by the time he would have done anything with it.

Cypher waves his forearm in front of Sova when he’s done, displaying the bandaid with a deadpan expression. “There. My grievous injury is patched. Fine.” He huffs, rolling his eyes. “Thank you for caring, Sasha, but please. I am fine .”

“You’re coming with me either way. You know that, right?” Sova barely reacts beyond an eyebrow raise at the usage of his name. “I will carry you if I have to. We both know I can.” He threatens when Cypher shifts backward, tempted to flee. The threat is a bit sobering in Cypher’s opinion: that, yes, Sova probably could rather easily wrestle him all the way to the kitchen.

Then, he gets an idea, grinning as he says, “Fine. Carry me then, hm? Go on.”

Sova blinks in surprise. There’s a pause, and then, to Cypher’s dismay, tells him, “Hold on to me.”

Cypher doesn’t, of course. He decides against thrashing because if he kicks Sova in the jaw and actually dislocates it or something, he’ll never forgive himself, and to be entirely fair he absolutely invited this invasion of his space.

Sova grunts at the lack of help Cypher provides, eventually hoisting him into a bridal carry for convenience and for Cypher’s comfort. Once he’s feeling confident in the fact he won’t drop the man, he manages a laugh that catches Cypher off guard.

“Are you laughing at me?!” Cypher bursts out, face flushing as he glowers up at Sova. “You’re the genius with the idea ! I didn’t think you’d actually-”

“Quiet whining,” Sova manages to murmur in a more serious tone, trying to stifle the smile crossing his face at Cypher’s immediate embarrassment as Sova carries him like this to the kitchen.

Cypher, not without several other complaints and two half-hearted attempts to free himself from Sova’s arms, eventually shuts up.

Cypher admits, it’s been longer than he can remember since he’s been carried. Unsurprising, given his age, yes, but it’s a very weird feeling nonetheless. He thinks back to remember who would have last carried him, out of curiosity.

He comes to the conclusion it was probably his oldest brother, when he was around the age of seven, and his brother would have been fifteen.

(He still doesn’t know where most of his brothers are, now, truly, or- any of his siblings at all. He doesn’t necessarily care - not in the way one usually would about a loved one, anyways- but it makes him think anyways. He wonders at what point their lives diverged to the point he stopped thinking of them.)

Apparently, the silence has invited Sova to think as well, because Sova breaks it by asking him the unhelpful question: “When was the last time you ate? Do you even.. You’re light. Lighter than you look.”

Cypher, reminded that he’s not being hauled by an invisible force that he can ignore, but instead the one person he’d figure would be the first to oust him from the protocol at the slightest hint of betrayal, immediately squirms, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know how long I was out.” Cypher replies, keen to dodge the question in a better way than ‘i dont know’. Sova takes that as a good enough answer and doesn’t pry further, though his brows furrow and he glances down toward Cypher before looking back up to avoid walking into any walls or tripping.

It’s only when Sova is setting him down in the kitchen that Cypher identifies the source of the weird feeling he has about being carried.

The loss of warmth is startlingly devastating. He’s not cold, but being tucked against Sova’s chest is significantly more warm. The man smells of something faintly sweet. He bashes himself for noticing that the moment it’s gone, but it’s true.

It comes down to the simple fact: Cypher hasn’t been this close to anyone in decades. Hugs bordered on the edge of his tolerance level as far as physical contact went. Being carried was a little more than a step above that, he’d argue, when Killjoy was the only person previously he'd oblige a hug just to appease her.

(He, horrifyingly, doesn’t feel uncomfortable with the idea of it happening again. To discourage that thought, he remembers just how much of a burden he is on the other man right now and basks in the guilt, desperately hopeful that it’ll be enough to make him stop thinking about it and just try to get free from this situation again.)

“Cypher?” That warm touch returns to his wrist, tapping him to get his attention. Cypher startles easily, discovering he apparently spaced out whatever Sova was saying because Sova repeats himself, “You don’t have any allergies, yes? Or intolerances?”

“Ah, er- No. I don’t have any allergies or anything of the sort,” Cypher reaffirms shakily, trying to steady himself. He pulls his hand back, and Sova moves on with a hum of acknowledgement, either choosing to play dumb or blatantly unaware of Cypher’s aversion to the constant small touches.

The odd thing is, Cypher knows Sova isn’t a very physically affectionate person. Sova has outright denied hugs to people and squirmed away from the few that Phoenix insisted on anyways just to spite him.

Cypher shelves that thought yet again, choosing to not think too hard about it. For his own sanity.

“Do you want to watch me make breakfast? Or do you want to sit in the living room?” Sova asks him after obtaining a box of pancake mix, idly reading the instructions to double check if he’d remembered it right.

There’s a beat of silence in response where Sova glances up and Cypher looks away promptly before countering with, “Do you mind if I watch?”

As much as Cypher wouldn’t mind staying right here with Sova, if only to not be alone right now , Sova certainly doesn’t often cook for others in front of him. He doesn’t cook for many people at all, and Cypher doesn’t want to make the hunter uncomfortable. Sova merely smiles in response to his question and he feels stupid momentarily for asking.

Sova stifles a bit of a laugh. “Are you trying to make sure I don’t poison you?” Amusement bleeds into his voice and Cypher sputters.

“Wh- no!-” Cypher tries to defend himself, shaking his head, “Forget it. Nevermind.”

“No, you can watch, that’s not an issue.” Sova murmurs, shrugging. “You seem nervous.” He adds, hesitantly.

“I'm not.” Cypher huffs, awkwardly leaning against one of the further counters to stay out of the way. “What gives you that impression?” He almost immediately regrets the question when Sova gives him a flat look.

He chooses to not react, hoping it’ll save his dignity.

“You’re still blushing, for one.” Sova points out dryly, rummaging in one of the cabinets below for a bowl and then a fork. “And you ask a lot of questions to redirect attention off yourself. Yes. It’s very obvious to me.”

Now, Cypher’s fully aware his face is still red, and he's obviously not planning to address that: but the questions part? “I ask questions when I'm nervous?”

“That’s a question too.” Sova points out. Cypher scoffs.

“That’s not the point. I don’t believe you’re correct on that one. Besides, you have long since been ignoring me at any other time than now. Why would you notice that of all things?” Cypher huffs. “I'm not nervous.” He repeats, stubbornly, “..but I am not exactly fond of this turn of events.”

“You have very specific habits, Cypher. You’re not as blank-faced as..” Sova trails off, meeting Cypher’s eyes. Cypher scowls. “Well. When you had the mask, you weren’t as subtle as you thought you were. You’re especially expressive right now, though.”

“Make the damn food before I do it myself.” Cypher snaps, elbowing Sova out of the way to grab the bowl and pancake mix, tearing open the brand new bag and eyeballing roughly enough for two servings, muttering to himself as he looks around for a clip to close the bag for the next person.

“Language,” Sova scolds, grinning as he goes to fetch milk for the pancake mix.

“Oh, fuck you.” Is Cypher’s immediate response, finding himself smiling with Sova despite himself. Sova huffs a noise bordering on a laugh as he props the milk on the counter.

“So,” Sova gestures toward the gallon jug all of a sudden, looking at him.

“What?”

Sova grabs it, and shakes it slightly. It dawns on Cypher that it is, for all intended purposes, empty. A bit of milk sits at the bottom sadly.

“We have to have more milk. Another gallon. Surely.” Cypher insists, going to check the fridge himself.

Sova barely stifles a laugh when Cypher’s face falls at the fact they are somehow out of milk. Cypher shuts it with a lengthy sigh.

“Dammit. I guess we’ll use water. Who puts back an empty milk jug?” Cypher scowls, shaking his head.

“I could think of a handful of people who would.” Sova states plainly, taking the bowl of pancake mix to the sink, and adds what he thinks is the correct amount of water. Cypher turns the stove on in the meantime and grabs a decently sized pan to set on the stove to heat up.

“I would put money on it being Phoenix.” Cypher hums. “Twenty credits. Your bet?” He smirks at Sova as the man huffs, grabbing the fork set out next to him to begin stirring the pancake mix into an actual batter.

“My money would have been on Phoenix as well.” Sova decides, much to Cypher’s delight.

“Hah! I thought you didn’t do betting anymore?” Cypher nudges him. Sova swats at him with the wet fork. “Wh- Sova!” Cypher cries, immediately backing away to avoid getting any of the half-mixed batter on him.

“You cheat in half of them. I figured I should save my money and sanity,” Sova says blandly, narrowing his eyes at Cypher dramatically.

“Oh, how cruel to deprive me of my fun!” Cypher laments, rubbing at his sleeves to check if any of the batter got on him. “Eugh- Sova! That wasn’t necessary.” Cypher complains, going to grab a paper towel and desperately try wiping the batter that inevitably was flicked onto him.

Sova, noticing Cypher’s dismay, can’t help but laugh at him. It leaves Cypher standing there for a moment, surprised.

It’s not often he’s heard Sova laugh. Not that Sova hasn’t found anyone funny- of course the man eventually witnessed some of the stupid shenanigans the younger ones get up to. But Sova is quiet if nothing else, opting to just observe rather than be an active part of conversations.

It, nonsensically, reminds him of home.

(Nora laughed like Sova did, he notes. He exhales shakily.)

Sova reaches forward, abandoning the batter in favor of taking the paper towel from his hand and more thoroughly wipe it off as best he can. Cypher doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, simply watches with wide eyes.

“Are.. you okay?” Sova tentatively asks, catching the startled look on Cypher’s face. He steps back, worried to have overstepped somehow somewhere, waiting to be told what the problem was.

“You.. laugh like her.” Cypher whispers. Sova’s brows furrow for just a moment before he recalls some of the few times Cypher has mentioned Nora and makes the connection.

“I think she would have liked you. If we’d met at some other time.” Cypher decides quietly, shaking his head to move on, still feeling off center.

Sova blinks at him, opening his mouth to ask something, then deciding against it and simply turning back to the batter and bringing the bowl to the stove. The silence isn’t quite tense but it’s not exactly a comfortable one either.

Speechless, Sova makes no comment as he begins to make the pancakes, barely tossing any looks Cypher’s way as he focuses on not burning them.

“I remind you of her?” Sova asks a short while after flipping the first pancake. “Sorry. I don’t know if I should ask that. You don’t have to answer.” He quickly adds, hurriedly.

Cypher hums as he thinks about the question. It’s hard to see the similarities between Nora and Sova. Nora’s confident attitude and outgoing nature contrasts the cautious, solitary hunter in more ways than he can name. Nora, with dark black hair and green eyes and then Sova, with pale blond hair and a single blue eye.

Then he thinks of the tender way Sova wiped off the remnants of the batter from his shirt. He thinks of Nora, and their many cooking failures and messes and long nights of hysterical laughter and the same warm feeling he feels in the company of Sova right now.

“Yes.” Cypher decides, several moments later than he’d have liked. “In some ways.”

It’s truthfully the most he’s ever said about Nora to someone else directly. To relate her to someone right in front of him felt strange. His beloved wife, and then Sova. The man who found him after he tried to take his own life.

“She didn’t like cooking. She was good at it but never liked doing it alone.” Cypher murmurs. “I presume that's more different from you than similar, though.”

“I cook for friends. It does not bother me.” Sova offers in return with a shrug.

“So I'm a friend?” Cypher teases immediately. It’s an easy way to redirect from the route the conversation is going without plain ignoring a question or opting to not respond.

Sova, without missing a beat, says: “Yes. I may not like you sometimes, but you are a friend, and I care.”

Somehow, Cypher feels like that manages to be a heavier topic than his dead wife. Truly appalling to him, given he can name a multitude of times semi-recently that the thought of her has sent him to tears.

(Cypher is near certain that he’s grown numb to the idea of mentioning her. Years of thinking about her constantly was wearing him down, no matter how much he loved her. Though, his nightmares clearly disagree with that assessment. Then again, it’s therapeutic to tell someone about her in a weird way.)

Cypher thinks to say 'thank you', but he can’t imagine Sova would blame him for merely nodding silently and turning his attention to the very interesting kitchen tiles instead either. He hopes Sova doesn't fault him, anyways.

When Sova finishes two pancakes, he stacks them on a plate that he places off to the side before gesturing to it. “Cypher, eat. The syrup is in the fridge if you would like some, and so is butter. Unless you don’t mind waiting for me to finish the rest of these.”

“I thought you were cooking for me.” Cypher complains, mostly to agitate Sova. He retrieves a knife and fork for himself to cut the pancakes up.

“Cooking. Yes. It is cooked, no? Unless you’d prefer the rest of the batter.” Sova nudges the bowl off to his other side so it noisily rocks back and forth. Cypher grimaces.

“I believe I will have to pass on that offer.” Cypher responds, matching the deadpan tone Sova uses with him. Sova hums in amusement, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Ill deal with it myself.”

It’s truthfully not even a hassle to cut up. He skips butter because he can’t be bothered, but a generous amount of syrup sounds fantastic after ages of not eating. As tempted as he is to ask Sova to prepare another serving, Cypher knows that he’ll probably struggle just to finish the two pancakes he currently has, knowing himself well enough to not expect himself to finish a large meal.

“If you sit in the living room, I will join you shortly while we eat. If you would like company, anyways.” Sova says right before Cypher meanders out of the room, sounding almost awkward with the offer.

“You don’t want me to be alone, do you?” Cypher retorts blandly. Sova pointedly doesn’t look at him, tips of his ears going pink. “Alright. I’ll be waiting for you.” He surrenders easily, though he suspects Sova wouldn’t stop him if he left right now.

“Don’t wait for me. Just eat. I will be there before you’re done.” Sova insists, shaking his head. Cypher shrugs but doesn’t fight the man over it, simply walking off without another word.

It’s then he realizes how quiet it is in the shared common room. It’s early in the morning, he figures, guessing off of the analog clock on the wall that has been off by three hours for weeks now. Unsurprisingly, nearly the entire protocol hates mornings, with Sova and Skye being some of the most notable exceptions.

Not to say he or Sova were loud people, but the sounds of shuffling and cooking were fantastic background noise, and he’s almost tempted to walk back to the kitchen. He won’t, he never will go out of his way to find comfort in the people around him, not anymore- but the temptation stays there in the back of his mind anyways.

Unsurprisingly, Cypher does finish his food before Sova returns. He’s always been a fast eater- whether that be from the nagging feeling of insecurity around his food that persists despite his efforts to dissuade that train of thought, or the fact he usually has to take off his mask to eat in the first place.

Technically, that was still a problem. Though, by now Cypher had no idea where Sage may have put his mask at this point and he was hesitant to walk back into his room at this point.

It was going to be a terrible cleanup for him when he finally found the confidence to do so. He hopes that the walls won’t stain- they appear to be some kind of metal, yes, but he’s never explicitly asked what they are and god forbid it be something absorbent in any way.

“My apologies. I forgot I had to clean up before I joined you, so it took me longer than I’d have liked,” Sova murmurs, interrupting Cypher’s thoughts. He jolts to sit upright, flinching because he knows he’s unmasked, and then sighing because it doesn’t matter if Sova sees his face.

Sova has seen him plenty already. It’s hard to stress about it on top of the rest of his problems. He’d rather just accept that the mask meant little at this point.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” Sova frowns, sitting down on the opposite side of the couch from him.

“Don’t apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.” Cypher assures, shaking his head. “I am.. Jumpy. The whole ‘unmasking’ thing isn’t helping, I’ll admit. Or the fact I can't just go to my own room..” He grumbles.

The archer looks at him with furrowed brows, thinking, and then realizing what Cypher already has. “Oh. You.. ah. No, you would be best not to right now."

Cypher grimaces in return, “So you didn’t clean it, have you? Has Sage been in there yet?”

“I didn’t think about going back. I didn’t want to rummage through your room just because you were unconscious. Sage and Skye were busy tending to you for a couple of days.” Sova admits, picking at his food with disinterest.

Cypher regrets mentioning it. He doubts Sova wants to hear about the mess they both know is in his bathroom right now while Sova’s eating breakfast. “Sorry.”

“I’ll help you clean it once I'm done eating.” Sova states, ignoring his apology. “You shouldn’t have to. And it would be best if you get some sleep. I know you won’t sleep in the medbay, so I will compromise and let you go back to your room.”

“I can clean up blood, Sova. I’ve done it before.” Cypher scoffs. “Don’t bother. I will handle it.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, broken by the clinking of a metal fork against the glass plate Sova picked. Sova puts the fork down and says, “Cypher, im not letting you clean the mess from your own suicide attempt. You need rest.”

“I won’t be sleeping anyways.” Cypher scoffs, looking away from Sova. “Can you please stop mentioning the suicide attempt thing?”

It’s certainly one thing to be aware of what he’s done- which, yes, was most definitely suicide but if Sova insists one more time like it changes the fact- Cypher wants time before he deals with some of the harsher truths of what he’s done and god, for all Sova is doing to help, the repeated mentions of his suicide are certainly starting to frustrate him.

Sova pauses and he catches a hint of a frown on the man’s face in the corner of his eyes. “You-” He cuts himself off instead, sighing, “Okay. Sorry. But you’re going to sleep, Cypher. That's not optional. Do you want to sleep in my room while I clean yours?”

That’s not quite the offer Cypher was expecting. Given the fact Sova has in the past openly threatened to end his life should he so much as dream of setting foot in Sova’s room and rummage around. He can’t help but stare like Sova’s grown a second head.

“And you aren’t going to kill me if I look around?” He drawls. “I think we both know I will.”

“Then look, dammit. What are you even planning to find? My shirts? Cypher, please. There’s nothing there of interest.” Sova retorts blandly. “You don’t even have your cameras on you, so it's not like you could set anything up in there. Lay down and pretend to sleep for all I care, but rest. ”

Cypher huffs. “I'm not sleeping in your room. I am enough of a problem as is. You shouldn’t have to bother with this anyways.”

“Must I carry you everywhere? Unless you’re going back to the medical bay, or on this couch,” Sova gestures toward the space around them, “Then you should just accept it. It’s morning, Cypher, I already slept.”

Cypher glances toward the windows. It’s barely becoming light, the horizon a dull blue. “It’s most certainly not morning.”

“You’re hopeless. Come on.” Sova stands, offering him a hand like it isn’t right up there with one of the most appalling things Sova has done just tonight.

“I thought you didn’t like me?” Cypher asks carefully as he simply stands to follow Sova, desperate to keep what little distance he has between himself and Sova. Sova doesn’t take it as an insult anyways, merely walking slowly with him by his side.

“I didn’t trust you, no. But I did not wish to see you die, be it… on field or not.” Sova tells him tentatively.

“So you trust me now?” He jeers, ignoring the death part of that sentence and elbowing Sova playfully. Sova grimaces as if struck, leaning away from him.

“It is hard to see you would do anyone harm,” Is not the response Cypher is expecting from Sova.

The rest of the walk to Sova’s room (apparently, since, Cypher doubted that was a genuine offer up until the moment they were going down the hallway for the initiator’s quarters) was silent as Cypher opts to not comment on that, figuring Sova doesn’t want to hear him argue with that.

(He wonders, if maybe the reason everyone he’s dared willingly show his face has died is because they dare trust him and he betrays it. It’s a thought he doesn’t want to entertain, but it lingers like a bad taste in his mouth.)

Sova fumbles for a spare keycard with one hand, and unlocks the door with another. He hands the card to Cypher, waiting until Cypher takes it.

“I..?” Cypher doesn’t even know how to articulate his confusion.

“So you don’t lock yourself out if you need a walk. I will need that back eventually, but I understand if you need to stretch your legs. But rest, Cypher. You need to.” Sova leads him into the room when Cypher very cautiously takes the card as if it’s a trap.

(Some part of him is utterly dumbfounded that Sova doesn’t lash out the second he takes it, that Sova merely nods in approval when he finally does and very hesitantly follows Sova in.)

Sova’s room is nothing too unique. A desk with some books and his owl drone currently neatly laid there and a lamp still on that illuminates the room. A bed with far too many blankets for Sova to feasibly use, just at a glance. Then he spots a couple wood carvings on a shelf- his personal favorite already being the wooden owl.

Sova looks between him and the shelf and then walks over and grabs the owl and, after a moment of hesitation on his end, offers it to Cypher. “You seem interested. If you’re going to rummage around, then start there. Don’t drop it. They’re not very sturdy.”

Cypher visibly seems concerned about the idea of touching something he’s very much marked off-limits in his mind. Sova huffs in amusement at him.

“You don’t have to look at it like it’s going to kill you. I know, it’s not good. It’s an owl.” Sova puts it down on the desk and lightly nudging it aside.

“It is very good,” Cypher immediately splutters, “I just don’t want to go through your stuff. That was a joke I said because you acted like I would if given the chance. I don’t go through peoples rooms, this is- odd , very odd to me.” He finally sheepishly says, threading his hands together nervously before deliberately sighing and urging himself to relax.

Sova smiles at him, stifling a bit of a laugh. “I know you won’t. Have you seen how you guard your room? Cypher, you’re many things but not a hypocrite. Go lay down. Do you want the lights off?” He meanders toward the lamp, waiting for Cypher to find something to orient himself before daring to turn off the light.

Cypher hesitantly takes exactly one half step toward the bed before coming to a stop like there’s an invisible force-field around it.

“Cypher, you’re not trapped in here. I promise. You will be okay.” Sova soothes, a bit softer, and turns toward the door. “I assume you’re not sleeping yet. I’ll leave you be. I’ll check on you at noon, alright? There’s a clock on the table there.” Sova gestures toward the bedside table.

“Good night, Cypher.” He murmurs just before leaving, knowing Cypher has opted not to respond to him. It’s an odd feeling knowing he very much could look and snoop around Sova’s room and yet somehow the man trusts him enough to leave him here.

Not that he thinks he’ll find anything, really, but still. The point stands.

He half-expects Sova to burst into the room again and either yell at him for not sleeping, or to yell at him for still being there and misreading some psychic hint to leave and not actually accept the offer despite Sova’s insistence being the only reason he actually entered the room in the first place.

He leaves the keycard he was given on the bedside table with the clock before gingerly making his way to the lamp to turn it off. There’s enough small lights from various charging ports for Sova’s gear that he can navigate back to the bed and sit down on the edge.

Cypher owes it to Sova to try sleeping, he figures, but he doesn’t anticipate how distracting it is to get comfortable in someone else’s bed.

Besides the fact he would literally die if Brimstone were to check in on Sova and find him instead, it’s Sova . The one person he’s sure would have killed him if Brimstone didn’t insist murder was against the rules not too long ago.

It’s weird. But with enough mental conditioning and a couple blankets very carefully delegated to the edges of the bed to leave him only with the ones most similar to his own bed, he manages to at least relax, and it reminds him just how tired he is despite the fact he’s been sleeping ever since he woke up.

He hopes Sova will tell Sage where he is. Or, well, tells Sage that he’s alive- he naively hopes despite it all that Sova won’t just say Cypher’s in his room. He knows Sova will and he prays that it stays between Sova, him, and Sage because Killjoy would never let him live it down.

(Besides, that very minor crush he may or may not have on Sova is not real and he is not considering it and- he really just needs sleep, he suspects. More sleep. Eventually, it’ll fix something, he prays.)

It turns out, Sova smells like lavender. At least that's what the blankets imply and it’s a detail that haunts Cypher all the way into his dreams.

(It’s a domestic scene. Him and Nora in a field of lavenders, in the warm midday sun with a nice breeze that makes the flowers gently sway for who knows how far out. From here, he can’t see the end of the field.

It’s just them, away from everything else, somewhere safe and beautiful.

She picks one and gently tucks it behind his ear as best she can without it falling, and in the dream, all he does is smile and try not to move lest he shake it off.

She continues to see how many she can put on top of him, building stacks on his legs and head until they’re both stifling hysterical laughter as she continues to get more and more audacious with the placement of them- such as, trying to balance them on his nose, which did not work, or trying to persuade him to hold out his hands and start holding some more of the stupid lavenders as if he needed any more of them than the ones already stacked on him.

It’s not a nightmare like he’d expected. It’s comforting, and he basks in it for every second he can, finding himself significantly more fond of the flower than he realized.)

Chapter Text

Sova finds himself unable to focus in the following days. Between the rather bothersome thought of the thin man in his arms earlier, weirdly light for a grown adult of his height, and the obvious fact that he’s still concerned about the sentinel, it’s a difficult task to shoot straight. He doesn’t miss, but a few arrows end up slightly off center from the targets, and it takes him unusually long to shoot on target.

He doesn’t stop trying, of course, he has little else to do but practice. It is good to make sure he is always prepared, no matter how agitating every shot may be and the frustration building in the back of his mind.

He begrudges himself a break on account of the stress he’s been under, wondering if Cypher is enough of a maniac to keep trying if he were to look away- For all of his impossible standards, for once, he’s too weary to blame and guilt himself over this.

“Hey, Sova.” Killjoy sounds just as terrible as he feels. He almost startles at her voice, but instead lowers the bow and looks back over his shoulder. She doesn’t look any better than she sounds.

“Killjoy,” he greets, nodding as he sets the bow down. “Do you need anything?”

Killjoy manages a bit of a smile. “Company, I guess. I- I don’t know. You’re comforting to be around, if that makes sense. Not in the same way Sage is, but..” She just trails off, taking a seat at one of the nearby tables.

His arrows lay splayed across that table. Killjoy cautiously nudges them aside, wary to not be shocked.

Sova finds himself wondering why he’s the one who has to keep helping. It’s a selfish thought, he admits, but he’s not sure how to fix this. How to fix Cypher. How to fix the young lady in front of him. How to fix or help any of them. He sits across from her anyways, stacking the arrows back in their quiver neatly.

“I don’t make for good company.” He admits, laughing a bit himself. “How was your day?”

It’s an attempt. Killjoy laughs with him, shrugging. “About as usual, honestly. Just.. stressed. Raze is out on a mission. I'm worried for her. I don't-” Killjoy breathes a terse sigh, shaking her head. Her elbows brace against the table as she lets her head fall into her hands, shutting her eyes.

“I don’t want any of them to die. Why does it keep happening?”

Sova doesn’t know what to say. He reaches over, gingerly brushing her hair out of her face, wanting to comfort in some way. Killjoy mumbles an apology quietly.

“It’s okay,” Sova says.

“Being ‘okay’ really sucks.” Killjoy retorts, sounding slightly frustrated. “Sorry. People keep saying that. I.. ugh.”

“Yeah.” He chooses to agree. She's not wrong and it stings a bit to realize it himself as well. “Sorry. I am.. Not exactly sure what to do either. I am, let's say, inexperienced in the field of death.”

He thinks back to that night he was hovering over Cypher, desperately tending to the wound with Sage’s help as Skye kept Cypher stable. His bloody hands. The brown eyes staring at him, near lifeless.

It is most certainly not a situation he’s qualified for, he’d argue. She laughs weakly anyways.

“None of us really are. Except maybe Omen.” She pauses, brows furrowing, “Wait, that’s kind of mean. I didn’t mean for it to be.”

“I will not scold you, however,” Sova begins carefully, “I would prefer you keep in mind that Omen is just as human as the rest of us. That is a rather thoughtless remark.”

“He’d find it funny,” Killjoy defends, arms crossed.

“Really?” Sova drawls. “I was not aware you were close.”

“Well, we’re not really. I don’t think he really likes me. But he and Cypher bicker all the time. They don’t shut up, actually.” Killjoy huffs indignantly, “He laughs when Cypher says stuff like that. And threatens him, but I think that’s all well-meaning. LIke how Jett swears she’ll set Phoenix on fire and see if he’ll actually burn if the fire is hot enough.”

Sova shakes his head disapprovingly. “I believe that's called ‘friendship’, Killjoy. Not bickering.”

“Uhuh, whatever you say.” Killjoy disregards him just as easily, sighing. There’s a moment of weighted silence; one which Sova doesn’t dare break.

“The others are hosting a game night tonight.” She says after a bit.

“That’s sweet. Have you all managed to get time off?” Sova can’t see why that’s relevant to him, but he may as well show some enthusiasm for her sake. His attention drifts off to his bow, to the bots in the distance- anything but idle chatter.

“Brim is letting everyone take a break. He wants to have some kind of mental health meeting or something. He wanted everyone to show up. He’ll probably ask you to go eventually.” She shrugs, fumbling for her phone. “Also, have you seen Cypher? Sorry. I know you aren’t close or anything, but Sage has been running around all day and Skye says she hasn’t checked on him lately.”

“Cypher? Yes? Why?” He looks toward her, briefly unsure of what Cypher must have gotten up to, drawing a blank as to why it would be relevant where Cypher is. She tilts her head to the side.

“Sage says he’s missing from the med bay. Obviously. Where’d you see him?”

“Oh,” Sova feels his face warm. It’s a bit odd to say, “He should be asleep in my room. I will let her know.”

Killjoy lets out a startled laugh. “What? Seriously? Who are you? You can’t be the Sova I know.”

“He was wandering late at night and would not have slept in the medical bay,” Sova defends himself, half-turning away from her, suddenly extremely interested in studying the scoreboard a couple paces away from them. “I told him to rest in my room. I did not want him to go back to the range, I do not believe he is fit to be holding a weapon of any sort right now.”

She gives a knowing hum and teasing look. “I'm not here to judge, but does it really take all that for you two to just admit you love each other?” She sing songs between giggles at Sova’s complete avoidance of eye contact.

Sova’s expression sours, though he tries his best to not scowl. “Killjoy, I am not-” He shakes his head, huffing. “I am near certain neither of us are gay. He needs actual support, and he will not accept it from you or the other younger agents.”

“You’re not gay, huh? Yeah right. Explain that time you got drunk and started going on about some pretty boy from your childhood.” Killjoy raises an eyebrow, daring him to explain his way out of that.

“ Killjoy. ” He snaps, though it lacks heat. He stands from the small table, deciding to gather the quiver of arrows and his bow to hopefully leave. “That was years ago. Also, I am not having this conversation with you. I will see you later tonight.”

Killjoy laughs at him when he storms toward the door. “Say hi to Cypher for me!” She calls out even as the door slides shut behind him with a mechanical click.

Truthfully, Sova has little idea as to what to do. Unfortunately, he has to return to his room to put his bow away since he’s learned from experience that anything fragile and expensive left out anywhere in the facility will inevitably become a victim of either Phoenix’s fire, Gekko’s buddies, or Skye’s pets.

He doesn’t have the hands to text Sage or Brimstone to say that he will be taking responsibility for Cypher for the rest of today, not when he doesn’t dare to hold the bow with just one hand when he’s this unfocused.

He silently hopes that Cypher is asleep when he nudges his way into his own room, hoping to be minimally intrusive and as quiet as he can be to not disturb the man. It may be his room, but he offered it as a comfort to the man for security and privacy, and he feels bad for betraying that.

He sets the bow and arrows down on his desk. Apparently, the quiet rustling stirred Cypher, as he hears the man shift and lazily grasp at the sheets with a sleepy murmur.

“Nora?” Cypher calls out, voice hoarse with sleep. Sova takes a moment to process what he heard before freezing.

“Cypher?” He asks, mostly to remind Cypher where he is. Cypher stiffens before huffing something else disgruntledly, rolling over in Sova’s bed, and nuzzles further into one of the blankets splayed around himself.

“Mh, sorry.” Is all the man has to say, laying there. Sova stares, briefly caught off guard by the fact Cypher was just comfortably sprawled in his bed.

He checks the time and finds it is around noon. Though he understands the man hasn’t been sleeping well, he knows Cypher hasn’t been eating well either and that is a more pressing concern to him.

Sova meanders to the edge of the bed, lingering before saying: “Cypher, I believe you should get something to eat. It’s lunch time.”

Cypher huffs, sitting up to look at Sova properly. His hair is a mess, more so than previously, and his eyes are lidded and tired.

“Mmh,” He huffs indignantly in some form of bleary protest. The man leans back against the adjacent wall, arms folding over his lap as he stares at Sova wordlessly, blinking back to reality slowly.

“Good morning.” Sova says, amusement lilting his voice. “Are you awake now?”

“No.” Cypher decides, a smile flitting across his face. He stretches his arms forward and yawns before asking, “what time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon. Roughly.” Sova informs him. Cypher scrunches his face up unhappily, mumbling something before looking away at Sova’s disapproving look.

“You needed the sleep, Cypher,” He reminds the man with thinly veiled annoyance at the insinuation that Cypher regretted sleeping.

“Yes, yes, Whatever,” Cypher agrees to placate the hunter. “Can you..- well, no, nevermind,” He abruptly trails off, shifting as if uncomfortable.

“Hm? Do you need something?” Sova asks, even if he knows the man in front of him would probably choose death (again?) as opposed to simply asking for anything. “If you need clothes, you can borrow some of mine until you get to your own room to change?” He guesses.

Cypher’s face goes a deep pink, seemingly caught off guard by the offer. “Er- no, no, It truly doesn’t matter. I was going to ask if you could cook again, but I can cook plenty fine on my own. Please, do not worry.” He promptly moves to stand, stumbling momentarily.

When Sova holds onto his sides to stabilize him, Cypher wishes he could curl up and die in a hole from embarrassment, wondering how difficult it would really be to disappear off the face of the earth as opposed to being comforted by Sova and fed and cared for after he had the bright idea to try taking his life. It was almost shameful in Cypher's opinion.

Sova’s eyes brighten. He pushes Cypher back toward the bed, “Stay. I will return with food?”

Cypher, caught up on how easily Sova manhandles him, stammers before dumbly going: “Okay.”

And that is how Cypher ends up sitting on the edge of Sova’s bed, heart in his throat, haunted by the smell of lavender that has now decided to cling to him. He’s starting to think Sova has some kind of scented air freshener in here, but his initial once-over doesn’t help him spot it.

The easy solution to abate his rising mortification is, obviously, to mess with every item he can locate within the room. It makes for solid entertainment, and he isn’t causing harm, so he can’t find a reason for Sova to truly be frustrated with him.

It does not help with Cypher’s anxiety about being in Sova’s room in the first place.



It isn’t long before Sova returns with a plate of food for Cypher with a cup of tea.

“Here,” The hunter is pushing the plate of leftovers- something rice, that’s all Cypher knows, he figures it was made sometime when he was out because he certainly doesn’t remember seeing it in the fridge himself- into Cypher’s lap and the cup of tea into his hands.

It’s warm (obviously, Cypher admits, but it feels terribly soothing in his hands,) and smells familiar.

“Is this..? This is my expensive tea.” He furrows his brows, squinting at Sova to judge a reaction. Sova gives him a guilty smile.

“Yes. I believed that you would not mind if I brought you a cup..?” Sova questions, sounding nervous now that Cypher has pointed it out.

Cypher isn’t sure he could bring himself to be mad even if Sova had somehow butchered his favorite brand of tea; not when Sova looks at him like that. “Thank you,” He says, offering a smile of his own.

Sova visibly relaxes, nodding and turning away, toward his gear. He mulls over it thoughtlessly, presumably ensuring everything is still intact, before taking a seat in the chair at the desk.

“Killjoy says there is a game night later. She wants you there,” Sova blurts as if he’d just remembered it. Judging by the way he straightens up, gaze focusing on the floor intensely in thought, Cypher can tell he most certainly just has.

“Of course, I guess. What time?” Cypher picks at his food idly, feeling weird to eat in front of someone. It’s a nagging feeling that he ignores easily, but he truthfully doesn’t have much of an appetite to begin with.

“I would assume shortly after dinner. As is typical,” Sova shrugs, gaze still mostly lingering on his bow. His hands sweep out, locating a spare arrow, inspecting it with little interest. “Sage also needs to be informed of where you are. I forgot to tell her since I wanted to drop off my bow and then you woke up.”

Cypher grimaces. Sova is apparently paying attention because he stifles a laugh at Cypher’s misery.

“Leave our healer alone. She will have little to say to you anyways.” Sova chides him lightly. “She has been more than lenient with you.”

Cypher shrugs. “Yes, yes. I understand. I am thankful.” And that is the last thing they say as Sova focuses on his equipment to allow Cypher to eat in peace, drawing his bow into his lap and rummaging for some

It is only when he’s done eating Cypher feels obligated to ask: “Why?”

Sova finally looks back up at him, pausing. The silence is particularly thick and Cypher regrets having said anything at all, hands nervously working their way into Sova’s bedsheets, fidgeting with the soft fabric.

“Why what?” Sova asks, tone soft, genuine. “You are being far too vague.”

Cypher wildly gestures around himself, almost taken aback that Sova did not understand.

“What do I mean?- All of it, Sova! Why would you?- Why- Why help me? Of all people? When you could have just- done nothing at all!” He splutters, waving his hands about as he talks. He pushes the empty plate in his lap aside to stand, vehemently continuing with, “You know I would have been fine! With or without you- I would have been fine- we all know that, so why would you bother?-”

How he ends up standing right in front of Sova, locking eyes with the man and seeing the surprise and disapproval on his face is entirely beyond Cypher. All he knows is that the look he receives from the hunter entirely cuts off whatever he thought he was going to say, shoulders slumping as he exhales a shaky breath instead.

“Cypher. Is it that hard to grasp that I care? I do not agree with you. But I do not have to agree to care about you as a person.” Sova’s soft, caring voice is only fuel for whatever fire demands he pulls away, so painfully aware he has let this spiral too far- that he is no longer some anonymous, untouchable man- that he is so painfully human in front of Sova in all the worst ways.

Sova reaches out, taking one of his smaller hands in both of his to steady them. The only reason he doesn’t grab Cypher’s other hand is because Cypher braces that hand against the desk Sova is sat at, suddenly feeling terribly unbalanced and dizzy with emotion.

“I am not a person you should care about.” Cypher manages to whisper, unable to bring his voice any louder.

(Nora scoffs in the back of his head, mumbling something disapproving at his logic- and Amir recoils with hurt at his words. A flash of blood across dusty floors and Nora’s limp body is all it takes to be so sure that it is the bitter truth about himself.)

“And why is that?” Sova asks him patiently. Too patient. Cypher pulls his hand back from Sova and the man just lets him.

“I- why? I have killed more men than I can count, I have ruined more lives than one could even imagine, I have only brought pain to those close to me- what do you mean why?” Cypher snaps, unable to help but to point out the obvious. If it is some cruel, elaborate taunt on Sova’s part, he should congratulate the man- but Sova’s eyes soften with sympathy instead of amusement.

It is possibly even crueler that Sova perhaps truly cares. Cypher doesn’t know for sure.

“And so has Omen.” Sova tells him. “And yet, you treat him kindly. And the younger agents may not come to you often, but it shows how they rely on you as a level head to just listen when need be. Whether or not you know- or perhaps you don’t care- you are loved by many of them.”

Cypher wants to snap at him for insinuating that any of that was comparable to right now. No, what little of himself he offered to the others as comfort was never under the assumption that they would see him, know him, understand him- the mask kept them safe.

(It kept him safe from these foolish, mindless, and plain reckless attachments by forcing him to draw a line between him and them.)

“When people are close to me, they get hurt. I will only hurt you if you let me.” Cypher snarls, “Don’t you understand? I will hurt you if you insist on caring and we both know it!”

“I am not frightened by whatever threats you are making. Cypher, you tried to kill yourself . If you keep going like this- I know you will do it again. And you will succeed that time. So please. For my sake, stop pushing me away.” Sova huffs, and Cypher looks away, unable to face Sova any longer.

“I-...” Cypher has nothing to say in response to the harsh truth that his careful distance from everyone else will crumble in on him again. That it already failed him once. He moves toward the door, and Sova watches him tersely.

“I will be present for.. The game night. Later. I will be in my quarters. Text me if I am not out by the time it starts.” Cypher declares wearily.

Sova nods. “Of course. Please. Take care of yourself, Cypher.” He urges, voice low but urgent.

Cypher doesn’t respond. He opens the door, and flees down the halls at a brisk stride to maintain whatever dignity he has left by not sprinting as far away from Sova as he can so he can properly shelf the various things he feels instead of processing any of it.

He’s not sure what he’ll do to occupy himself- but it won’t be sleeping. He’s tired of sleeping, somehow.

The scent of lavender follows him well into his own chambers. If he hadn’t been so hesitant to enter his bathroom to avoid thinking about his prior suicide attempt, he’d have showered to rid himself of such traces of Sova which seem to haunt him.

(It’s comforting despite his reservations and fear.)

Chapter Text

Cypher has little to do in his room. The first thing he discovers is that the list of passwords sketched onto a little paper are gone. Extremely worrying, yes, but that implies that Sova must have brought it to Brimstone or someone else who already had access to his systems.

He can worry about it all he likes, but it’s not like he can do anything about it, so he may as well just write it off as a major potential security breach and ignore it. He knows that it’s not a major concern and that he doesn’t need to hunt through the entire protocol to figure out who took it; not now.

He supposes he could ask Brimstone if he knew about the password list, but that would require a very tough conversation with the man and more than likely that he would be hauled straight to Sage and scolded for leaving, followed by what he would consider a mild interrogation about his mental health.

(The moment he stops thinking about it as a simple inconvenience to have lost the passwords is the very same moment he is suddenly extremely uncomfortable with how replaceable it makes him feel. How replaceable he is right now- considering they have to fill in for his duties anyways.)

So he tries to get back to work. Not the best idea in his half-panicked mind, trying to be useful, since he doesn’t even know what he would try doing in the first place. But it doesn’t work. He can log in to his computer, but anything related to the protocol simply prompts him with an error message informing him of his forced vacation time.

The next thing he discovers is that Sage has definitely locked him out of his own system. With the help of Killjoy: his devices simply won’t let him access any of the protocol files, security systems, or even the internet. Why he isn’t even allowed the internet is appalling. He could look for some interesting fun fact about wildlife, or.. Well, anything else if he could search anything.

At least, as the prompt assures him of, this doesn’t come out of his paid vacation time. Of which they all know he will not use, but he would have liked to complain just over the principle of taking it from him. He supposes they won’t give him that luxury, though.

If he was any less sick of thinking, he’d take this as a rather fun challenge. Instead it adds to his lengthy list of problems and restrictions and makes him want to storm to Sage’s office and tell her that he’s not a child and they have no right to treat him as such because he is employed to do security work, of which he is restricted from.

He just knows that conversation would end with him in tears after she turns it into an impromptu therapy session.

(He feels like he’s being babied. He is almost in his forties, why on earth is everyone treating him like he is some child that cannot be trusted alone?)

After shutting down the computer at his desk, and spending a minute or two resting his head on his arms staring blankly at the wall in frustration, he locates his phone on the desk as a new source of entertainment.

Thank everything he knows, and every god he can name- for the fact that at least his phone was spared of the babyproofing. He’s still unable to access anything he was working on for the protocol, but it’s still something.

That leaves him with the fun options of: sleep, search the internet for something mildly distracting, call someone, (Sova? No. Maybe Sage over the phone? For an easier conversation. Or maybe Breach just to see if he can get the Swede to entertain him before the man blocks his number indefinitely again?) and go to the workshop to try working on his gear since he needs more cameras as usual, probably. Unlikely any of his old ones have broken in his absence, but he’s always short as far as he’s concerned.

He’s a hoarder at heart. Looking around his empty room, it certainly doesn’t show. Walls the same light steel gray, bed sheets the same ones gifted to him as a courtesy upon joining, the only signs it’s his room is the comfortable chair and a few trapwires sitting on his desk behind the computer monitor; missed in Cypher’s manic attempt to clean his desk prior to his latest lapse in judgement.

Determined not to run into Sova right now, he opts to stay in his room. And if he can pick a fight with Breach without running the risk of getting murdered, all the better to do that from the safety of his bed via a random call to maybe poke fun at Breach and see if he’s collected the obnoxious order of several hundred servos all addressed to him.

He doesn’t expect Breach to pick up instantly, truthfully. He expected a delay, maybe to get stuck with a voicemail and get called back two minutes later to be told to fuck off.

Crude, yes, but it’s about what he’s received in past endeavors considering how often he’s either called Breach on a dare, or has contacted him in hopes of wagering some of Breach’s servos and other miscellaneous items solely to avoid how long it takes to deliver anything to base. Breach has learned his calls simply aren’t ever time sensitive, if they are important at all, which isn’t often.

”Cypher, what the fuck.” Breach angrily says, voice loud through the phone. Cypher can’t turn him down any further, tragically, so he’s stuck with it. He stifles a bit of a snicker, wondering how many boxes the man had to haul back to his room of just various mechanical parts Cypher had once stolen from him; all returned at once. He supposes Breach might just be appalled how many were stolen without so much as a word from Cypher.

”You actually fucking did it, didn’t you?” That anger sounds more like shock, actually, and Cypher abruptly doubts that Breach even knows about the servos, or if he does, doubts he cares. Hanging up would be ideal, but it’s probably best if he doesn’t; lest Breach hunt him down.

”Fucking hell, talk. Are you ok? You’re alive, right? Cypher?” Breach sounds strangely panicked and Cypher wonders if he should have just called Sage. Instead- because if even Breach is concerned about him, he should really stop stressing people out- he takes a breath before speaking.

Cypher isn’t sure, maybe he’s insane, but he swears that he can hear the man walking at a very brisk pace in the background from almost the second Cypher called him.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Cypher huffs. “Are you trying to facetime me?-” He sputters the moment he realizes it, appalled that Breach is even trying that.

”Well, Killjoy says she saw your face. I gotta confirm if you look as shitty as you sound.” Breach says, then scoffs. ”Yes, I want to see if you’re actually okay.”

“I think enough people have seen my face,” Cypher declares, declining the facetime. Breach just attempts it again, stubborn as ever.

“Well that’s too fucking bad. How about-” Cypher jumps at the sound of metal whacking against his door, sputtering in disbelief. “-you open this damn door?”

“Did you sprint down the hall?- why are you?- what-” Cypher doesn’t even know what to say in response to Breach showing up at his door in under a minute. The workshop isn’t far from his room, he supposes, so maybe Breach just didn’t need to go far- but why is he here in the first place?

”Open the fucking door, Cyph. ‘Cause i'm breaking this shit down otherwise. Save me the trouble.”

Cypher, ever fond of his door and privacy in general, decides he can forfeit the right to hide if it means Breach won’t kick his door down and remove that right for the foreseeable future unless he shares lodgings with someone else temporarily. Though it’s made of sturdy metal and is theoretically bullet proof, he wouldn’t dare put it past the man to find a way to break it down, or otherwise damage the opening mechanism and force it open.

Breach seems genuinely surprised when he opens the door. “Oh, shit, man.”

Cypher hangs up, deciding that if he has to hear double of Breach for even a minute he’ll lose his mind. Breach merely blinks in surprise, clearly startled to see him in person without the mask.

“You alright?” He asks awkwardly, again, suddenly looking so very out of his element. “You.. uh. Look shitty.”

“You would make a fantastic therapist, Breach. Please consider a career change.” Cypher huffs, sighing deeply. Despite himself, he feels a bit of a smile climb up his face at the agitated look Breach shoots at him. “Yes, I am fine. Why were you even down this hall? I know you didn’t sprint here.”

“Was actually gonna ask about the eight boxes of shit you addressed to me and chew you out about that, then you called me. But you look like you’re not in the mood for that, so, uh.. Need a drinking buddy?” Breach laughs, seeming nervous as he leans against the frame of the door. It’d be comical to Cypher if not for the circumstances of Breach’s newfound awkwardness.

“I don’t drink. Also, aren’t you showing up to whatever game night the other’s are hosting? Raze would surely want you there.” Cypher declines with ease. He knows better than to drink for his own sake; the hangover always takes him out for the entirety of the next day and he’ll simply pass for the sake of his future self.

Breach shrugs. “Probably will be there, yeah. Not like ol’ Brim would kick me out if I was tipsy, anyways. He’s gotten over it with the younger kids, anyways.”

“Do you want to come inside? Or are you just.. going to stand at my door and have me stand here?” Cypher asks after a moment, stepping back to allow Breach to enter if he were to choose. He’s not keen on having guests in his bedroom, but he’d rather avoid the pestering from others about them just sitting around being friendly for seemingly the first time ever.

“Uhhh..” Breach peers in for seemingly the first time, takes a step forward and looks back at Cypher like Cypher is going to attack him on the spot. “You don’t mind? We can go somewhere else.”

“There are enough rumors involving me right now. Come in.” Cypher huffs. Not that he cares much about the lighthearted teasing he’s sure to receive, but it’s also genuinely not worth the trouble when he can just have Breach sit in his chair or something.

Breach finally cautiously enters, and hovers in the most empty corner of the room. There’s plenty of space- even keeping in mind that Cypher was by the door- it’s not really like Breach had to occupy a corner.

The door slides shut with a mechanized hiss, and Cypher pulls out and spins the chair to his desk around, gesturing for Breach to sit there. Cypher, with no other chairs- or, anything even remotely chair height except his bed- so he just takes a seat there.

Breach dubiously eyes the chair, clearly skeptical of its quality. (For good reason, truthfully. It’s a very cheap chair and it shows.) He sits after testing the weight of his arm on the back and discovering how very easily he could fall backward if he were to lean back.

“Very bad chair. Don’t buy one for yourself. Don’t lean back. Also, don’t use the arm rests, they break.” Cypher supplies his advice for the chair, a smile crossing his face at the flabbergasted look Breach throws at him.

“Why the fuck do you have a shitty chair? All you do is sit and look at shit on computers. If there is literally anything on this planet for you of all people to buy, it should be a good chair.” Breach sputters, “Are you just hoarding money? Who the hell are you leaving any of it to when you kick the bucket? You made a will yet?”

“I suppose the protocol could just take the funds back.” Is Cypher’s responsee after a pause, shrugging. “I don’t care. It was never about the money.”

“Yeah, says the poor kid. We know the money mattered. A lot, actually.” Breach retorts, leaning forward in the chair to raise an eyebrow at him. He gestures toward the room around him. “You’d buy shit if it didn’t feel like you were just renting. Even though we’re allowed to do whatever to our rooms as long as we don’t tear down walls or anything.”

“The housing mattered, yes. I am content as long as I have a roof over my head and passable meal options to work with. It was quite the improvement at the time of my introduction here.” Cypher scoffs. “I do not keep my room empty because of childhood trauma, thank you very much. It is empty because-”

“What, ‘cause the adult trauma instead?” Breach interrupts and Cypher forgets what he was even saying at the phrase ‘adult trauma’.

“Adult trauma?” He echos incredulously. “Besides the fact you’re claiming I'm traumatized- I am not, thank you- is that not just regular trauma?”

“Yeah, so, killing yourself but in a different body is considered batshit crazy in any other part of the world, Cypher. Actually, murder is considered very bad. In general. In case you forgot.” Breach drawls in a sardonic manner, and Cypher grimaces.

“Well, it’s unavoidable, I suppose. And I killed well before the protocol, so, I believe your point is irrelevant.” Cypher glances toward the floor, the walls, the celling. He’s rather aware that he is certainly scarred from his formative years, but it’s not exactly something he can fix, so he doesn’t see the point in talking about it.

Breach reads the room right for the first time ever (Cypher apologizes for that remark in his head. Breach is loud and selfish, but he’s seen the man be mindful of a situation plenty of times in the past. Inconsiderate, yes, but not always.) and just sighs.

“We should paint your room.” Is the ingenius change of topic Breach settles on.

“What?” Cypher isn’t even slightly following.

“This place looks like a holding cell. Reminds me of jail, only that you got a computer and a couple extra pillows. You’d never decorate this shit on your own, so work with me here, and lets at least get you some blankets that aren’t the shitty protocol issued ones.” Breach stands, looking around as if he’s already got ideas.

“Absolutely not, what are you thinking? I rather like my room. We don’t even have paint in this building.” Cypher curls his fingers into his scratchy sheets defensively. They are not comfortable, but they’re his, and Breach can burn in hell if he thinks they’ll just replace everything.

“We do have regular paint. Couple shades. Mostly hospital grey, boring beige, or black, but still. And some fun spray paint, but I don’t think you’re a fan of neon pink. You don’t strike me as that kind of guy, but, we can probably order barbie pink paint if it’s your thing.” Breach ignores his speedy shutdown of the idea.

“Maybe posters. You into guys or girls? We can put up some hot women or something.” He’s grinning like the fool he is when he looks back at Cypher knowingly. Cypher regrets letting the man in his room, face warm with mild horror at that kind of question and struggles to make a retort.

“Wh- No, no, no. You are not doing that-” Cypher manages to sputter, and Breach all but cackles at his misery, clearly having been going for that kind of reaction.

“Alright, hot guys then, didn’t know you were so against hot women. Cool.” He snickers. “Blonde, maybe?” Breach says breezily, hands on his hips as he imagines where there would be space for posters. “Russian-”

“I am going to kill you.” Cypher practically snarls, face hot with shame the second it clicks in his head, “Stop describing Sova. It is not like that. We are not even friends.” As tempted as he is to jump up and strangle Breach to make him shut up, instead he just pathetically pulls his one and only blanket over himself to hide.

Breach snickers, and he hears the man stroll over to him. There’s then the feeling of metal gently poking him in the side of the ribs, and he throws a hand out to swat at Breach. His wrist just ends up hitting Breach’s arm and he recoils with pain.

Spitting a swear under his breath as he sits up to best address his wrist, he glares at Breach through now teary eyes, the shame paired with pain quickly becoming more than agitating banter and instead becoming far too much.

“Oh shit,” Breach murmurs involuntarily when he and Cypher lock eyes. “Sorry. Hey, you good? Is your wrist ok?”

“Yes. It’s fine.. I am fine.” He blinks the tears from his eyes. It’s not that he’s upset, really. He’s not lying, he’d argue. His wrist hurts. “I still should kill you.” He settles on seethingly.

“Sure. Gimme a time and I’ll give Sage some advanced notice to revive me after you kick my ass. Deal?” The bed massively dips as Breach, uninvited, sits at the end of the bed. The thin mattress does not like such a change, nor does the bedframe, creaking with dismay at the man’s weight.

Cypher only responds with a withering sigh. “It wouldn’t even be worth my time.”

Breach huffs a noise similar to a laugh. “We should get you posters, though. If you won’t paint your walls, or get somethin new and fancy. Nature, maybe. Like birds. Haven’t met someone who wouldn’t want a wall of bird posters, honestly.”

“I don’t see the appeal. I don’t spend time in this room.” Cypher mumbles, brows furrowing. “I don’t know why you insist on decorating.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be off of work for awhile- they haven’t announced that, I just know they won’t let you handle firearms for awhile and that they won’t want you to drown yourself in work- you’ll probably be in here a lot more. Make it something you’d want to live in, right? Not saying you’re depressed and gonna spend all day in here, but.. Having a space just for yourself is real nice, Cyph.” Breach rambles on, Cypher ignoring most of it since it’s things he already knows. He shakes his head anyways.

“I'm terrible at decorating.” He settles on. “So I wouldn’t like it if I changed anything.”

“Then learn to love terrible, corny decorations. Let’s get you a live-laugh-love wooden board, or something. Hang up some LED lights set to blood red and turn on some edgy rock music. Or pick a holiday, like Christmas, and just leave it like that forever here.” Breach offers his advice. “Maybe start with some practical shit. Shelves for your junk. Picture frames, if you’re the kind of guy who likes pictures. Better blankets. Better desk. Candles, maybe, so it smells.. Uh. Less like blood.”

“....ah.” Cypher suddenly recognizes the suffocating scent in the air that has been prevalent ever since he was awake and alert enough to be distracted by it. Breach is right; it smells like blood in here. He’s surprised Breach hadn’t commented on that one sooner. “..Candles are a good suggestion.”

“There we go. That's a good start. In the meantime, you wanna go for a walk? Cause, uh, i’m starting to get a headache in here.” Breach offers, hesitantly. “Not that I won’t stay if you just want some shitty company. But I don't have any more complaints to throw at you so you can be pissed off at me, and you look like you need some fresh air.”

Cypher thinks about it. A tempting offer. It’s probably fairly nice out, if a bit cold for his liking. But it’s sometime in the afternoon, and Cypher doubts Breach would knowingly take him out into pouring rain or storm, so he’ll lean toward it being more pleasant than not.

He’s still not sure how much he wants anyone to see him. He finds himself nervously fidgeting as he thinks, freezes at how obvious it is that he’s unsure, but Breach just sort of looks away as if to pretend he didn’t notice at all.

He supposes it wouldn’t be too bad, overall. “Yes, we should. Wait in the hall for me? I need to find.. Um.. some regular shoes.” The mere thought of wearing his odd-looking boots without the rest of his suit makes him want to die. He doesn’t know if he has other shoes, except maybe some slippers since they’re quieter when he paces the halls.

“Alright. I’ll just be outside, ‘kay?” And Breach waits for him to nod before he leaves, hesitant even still, but nods back to him before exiting.

Cypher feels like maybe he’s the only sane one, at this point. Maybe everyone else has gone crazy, his brain scrambles for reason as to why suddenly everyone in this blasted building seems intent on making sure he’s not alone.

He’s obviously fine, he wants to scream, perhaps in need of some sleep and a good meal and a little bit of time to get himself together, but he’s fine. He feels no different from any other day, except maybe that he’s humiliated and ashamed at how his outburst seems to have everyone so ruffled.

He doesn’t understand. They die all the time. They come back all the time. Sure, maybe he killed himself, but in the end he’s alive anyways. It doesn’t matter.

(The haunted look in Sova’s eyes as Sova took the gun from him in the range. Bared teeth, tempered yet hysterical anger blazing in his eyes. He figured the man would simply figure it was easier on them all without Cypher. It is, Cypher swears, but clearly Sova disagrees.)

They don’t know him. Sova knows his name, perhaps. A few things about Nora, as of late. He never told Sova his name. Brimstone and Sage know; he willingly put it on the contract he signed. A show of fragile trust at the time; masked with confidence and the fact they couldn’t even check if it was his real name.

It hardly mattered if it was, really. It didn’t at all.

That is to say; he could easily say it was never his name. And they would have no choice to believe him. He’s good at lying. Good at playing the long game. He’s known for it; known for being dangerously crafty, for making people, items, and more disappear without a trace. Himself included.

They don’t know him. The fact they care should be laughable.

Should, being the keyword. His heart aches, his breath catches, and he finds himself hugging his knees on his bed breathing a touch quicker before he forces his hands to still their shaking. He can’t leave Breach waiting. He’s problematic enough as is. Breach is doing this out of courtesy and nothing more, he tells himself. To spare his wounded pride out of respect born only from their shared pasts as little more than street criminals.

(Well, calling them street criminals slightly downplays all of the crimes they’re technically still wanted for. Cypher is evading several felony charges in more countries than he’s comfortable with admitting.)

To Cypher’s amazement, he finds a pair of decent-looking sneakers in his closet. He’s lucky that he hasn’t grown at all since his teens- they fit perfectly well, comfortable. The shoes are a solid neutral grey color, quite similar to the leather of his work boots, at least in color.

The only issue is that they have laces.

(Funnily enough, Cypher has… minimal idea on how to tie his own shoes. He’s done it before, of course; but not frequently. And he’s spent the recent decade or so of his life with boots without laces, or various slip-on shoes to not inconvenience himself)

He manages to tie them well enough that it’ll be passable at a first glance. Clumsy, yes, but it won’t come undone during a simple walk and it doesn’t look laughable enough to warrant Breach immediately cackling at him over it.

Breach is waiting just across from his door. And, much to his utter dismay, not alone. Killjoy is lingering near him, and they’re mid conversation. Or, a very one sided conversation- Breach is leaning against the wall with a fairly agitated look on his face at Killjoy’s pestering.

(Cypher prefers to think Breach is annoyed with Killjoy. Some small part of himself is weirdly panicked at the idea of Breach being frustrated with him. He’s not trying to be difficult- he’s not, he’s not- oh, maybe he is hysterical, as he wallows in the hot shame and dismay that reignites across his body.)

“Aww, I didn’t think you’d be looking out for him.” Killjoy laughs, glancing back toward Cypher at the sound of his door opening. Her eyes widen in surprise. Cypher merely raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you would be with Sova.” Killjoy blurts, “Didn’t think you were actually here.” And without missing a beat, she practically falls into his arms, hugging him tight.

Cypher, unprepared, makes an undignified noise of surprise of his own before awkwardly wrapping one arm over her back. It’s an attempt at comfort, he supposes, but it’s not a good one. He’s very much not used to this.

“I missed you-” She whispers into his chest. It sounds like she meant to say more, but she stops there, abrupt, and hugs him a little tighter.

Breach huffs a near laugh, seemingly exasperated though the sound is fond. “Look, kid, give our old man a break.”

Killjoy ignores him. Cypher waves Breach off dismissively. Breach shrugs, but goes back to idly fiddling with some screw on one of his arms, obviously not sure what to do as the bystander of something way more emotional than Breach was capable of treating with the respective amount of care.

“Dear, dear. Look at me,” He beckons her, gently trying to squirm free of the hug. Very sweet, he admits, but she is going to surely suffocate him. Not that he’ll tell her that. She pulls back, flush with sheepish embarrassment, eyes teary.

“Im ok.” He tells her, soft, certain, “You have no need to miss me. I will be here. Promise,” He says.

(Promises are… well, not his strongest suit. He won’t say that. He means it in the moment. That’s enough. If he breaks it later, well, so be it.)

“Promise?” She echoes, watery. Cypher locks eyes with Breach over Killjoy’s shoulder. It feels sorely inappropriate to laugh. It feels very absurd, and Cypher is met with the unsurprising realization that maybe he isn’t suited for such emotional manners, either.

“Promise.” He assures anyways, and she lets go, patting herself off. 

“Well.. you two were going on a walk, so, I won’t interrupt. But you better be at game night tonight.” She huffs, straightening her posture.

“Yes. I will be there. I fear that I will have a very angry hunter on my hands if I do not. And Sage, and you, and Brimstone..” Cypher gives a withering sigh. “A very interesting angry mob.”

Breach snorts. “Add me to the list. You’re going, Cyph. Like it or not. I’d drag you kicking and screaming to the living room.”

Killjoy gives a small laugh, flashing a smile at him and Breach that lingers. “Be safe,” She tells him. “And don’t kill him.” She huffs at Breach, before striding off to leave them be.

Breach rolls his eyes and beckons Cypher along. “Cmon. Before the next group of kids decides to have a heartfelt reunion with you. Im putting up with a total of two reunions before im leaving you with the third reunitee and walking my happy ass down to the range for you to find me later.”

“Reunitee.” Cypher echos.

“Gotta be a word. Probably.” Breach leisurely defends himself as they begin to walk. “You know what I mean.”

“Surely not.” Cypher rebuffs without second thought.

“Yeah? Says you? The very clearly native English speaker here, right?” Breach’s voice lilts with amusement, a grin crossing his face.

“Well, maybe I am.” Cypher challenges, “You’d never know. I could be from anywhere.”

“Not from up north. Or Europe. You’d handle the cold better if you were.” Breach doesn’t bat an eye at his attempt at being cryptic. It’s slightly less good of an act without the mask.

“Europe is hardly that cold. Even in the northern cities.” He huffs, then pauses. “Well, I didn’t spend much of my time in Europe on foot searching. Much too small and busy to set up my equipment and not have it broken or taken down- or worse, stolen to be studied.” He still feels a nervous twinge thinking back to the time he’d found a camera in place of one of his own with a much too similar design to his to be a coincidence. It was not one connected to his systems.

He’d been paranoid enough to wipe every camera from his system, disable every single one, and take them all down just to put them back up in new spots- more obscure, difficult to reach spots, in hopes of them going truly unnoticed.

“Mmh. Yeah, I could see it being a huge fucking problem trying to get a tripwire anywhere where some poor kid won’t get caught in it being an idiot. At least, anywhere in the cities. Bet you could do it on a mountain.” Breach shrugs, huffing. They’re at the doors to outside now, Breach holds it open for him since it’s not a sliding door as usual. “Don’t think it’d be very useful though.”

It’s humid out as he nods to Breach, stepping out. “I didn’t use my tripwires much when I was on my own. Well, besides the obvious ones in the halls, by the doors-” He trails off at Breach’s snort.

“Paranoid fucker. I’d ask how you’ve lived this long, but I figure it’s just anxiety. You think you’ve got less trips sprawled about nowadays?” Breach asks casually, but Cypher can read the underlying message: Are you less paranoid around us?

“Much fewer.” Cypher confirms, and the conversation titters off there. Cypher has no inclination to fill the silence, and Breach doesn’t have much more to ask about.

They just walk near each other, both surveying the nature around them. Cypher tilts his head up to catch more of the slight, pleasant breeze under his neck, under his messy hair.

“I did what you did once.” Breach breaks the silence with. Cypher first thinks of his trapwires, and nearly laughs at the picture in his head- Breach, mulling over a trapwire that keeps triggering late or not at all.

Then he recognizes the somber tone Breach says it in.

“Tried to take my own life. Not with a gun. Didn’t have one.” He elaborates without prompting. His steps don’t waver. Cypher’s do. Very obviously so.

It simply doesn’t occur to Cypher that Breach would have even thought about trying. Even right now, he stares ahead, back straight, shoulders relaxed (and yes, the prosthetics did allow for enough variance to tell a difference in how Breach held his arms) and Cypher just can’t imagine Breach doing something like that.

“Couldn’t tie a rope. My brother was pissed when he heard me hit the floor. Don’t know what I was thinking. I was angry, I guess. I don’t know if you’d relate to that. But I felt like it was all.. Pointless, I guess. Didn’t want to keep scraping by. Didn’t think I’d ever really be happy. So I didn’t want to do it anymore.” He shrugs, looking toward Cypher. Cypher realizes he’s been studying Breach because they lock eyes.

Breach’s brows are pinched slightly. Cypher doesn’t know if he has any right to know this.

“It’ll get better.” Breach’s voice is soft, slightly strained. Cypher recognizes the pain in his voice and looks away.

“Hey.” Breach stops, reaching for Cypher’s wrist to get his attention. He doesn’t grab Cypher, aware that the metal fingers probably aren’t very comforting. The act of reaching for Cypher does it well enough anyways.

“Listen. Don’t you dare waste away-” He snaps, and Cypher realizes he hasn’t said a word this entire conversation.

“I don’t know why I did it,” He blurts to Breach, cutting the man off. “I'm not unhappy. It’s just- I- I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“I get that.” Breach says, sighing, and they continue to aimlessly walk around the base. It’s a pleasant distraction.

“We should circle back to you becoming a therapist. When can I schedule a session with you?” Cypher jokes, wanting to lighten the terseness of this conversation. Breach lets out a surprised laugh.

“You’d hate my hourly rate.” Breach snarks back. “I don’t do friend discounts.”

“Aww, I’ve made so many new friends by shooting myself.” He sighs dramatically as if to swoon. “Maybe this was a tactical move on my part.”

“Shut up,” Breach slings an arm over his shoulders. Cypher stumbles. Breach promptly withdraws his arm to not mess up Cypher’s balance any further. “You weren’t half bad. Just funnier to see how creative you’d get with taking my shit and bothering me if you thought I’d kick your ass if I knew.”

“I wondered why you let me take things as often as I did. I noticed you kept count of your servos very quickly.” Cypher admits, finding himself smiling.

“Yeah. I knew. And you’re the only fucker who’d be willing to mess with the servo itself to repurpose it to do what you needed it to do, so it was really obvious it was you. Only pissed me off on actual missions.” Breach laughs.

“I suppose that made for an interesting reputation between us. Constantly fighting on missions.” Cypher knows, at least regarding himself, that the assumption that they hated each other made him rather competitive about bothering Breach. Anything that couldn’t be certainly traced back to him went; but he always left hints of his meddling. Just to play innocent when caught. It was fun, and he’d admittedly treated it like a game even when he believed Breach was genuinely just hostile toward him.

“Hah. Probably didn’t help, yeah, you’re right.” Breach pauses when there’s a beep from his arms. They both pause, actually.

“Oh.” Breach flexes the arm in question. It moves, but stiffly. Notably: the fingers do not move. “I should go fix the battery. Before i'm down to one arm.”

“You should,” Cypher agrees, curiously reaching out to touch, then pausing.

“Go ahead.” Breach offers his arm for inspection without fuss, continuing while Cypher messes with the articulation of Breach’s fingers. They appear locked in place, but aren’t impossible to move. Breach slightly pulls back, and Cypher belatedly realizes that there must be sensation from the limb. To some degree. “You want me to stay out here with you?” He asks, as if Cypher isn’t actively poking at his arm with fascination.

“No, I will be alright.” Ignoring the dubious look Breach sends him, he huffs, “I will be staying out here for a bit. But I will be perfectly fine, for certain.”

Withdrawing from Breach’s arm, satisfied with the surface level inspection out of curiosity for the very first time, he can’t help but chuckle.

“Of course the first thing you do now that you’re not trying to make sure I don’t kill you is study me. I’d leave it up to you to dissect my arm while we talk about suicide anyday.” Breach drawls.

“Well, it’s extremely interesting. Prosthetics are very complicated, and yours is very well done. Deadlock wouldn’t let me. I did ask. She was not kind in her rejection.” Cypher defends himself with a smile.

“I should say,” Cypher starts hesitantly, smile waning, “thank you. For.. well. Talking. It was.. Pleasant, I suppose.”

“I could tell you needed to get out. Don’t do anything stupid, Cypher, while i'm gone.” Breach says, turning away from him dismissively. “See you at game night.”

“See you at game night,” Cypher echos, and Breach nods a goodbye before striding off. There’s nothing between them to block his view of Breach trying to adjust his arm, or muffle the mumbled noises of agitation when physical adjustment proves insufficient.

Cypher feels surprisingly light after the conversation. The sun is nice. The grass feels nice when he sits down eventually, moving to then lay down. To realize Breach of all people has attempted- well, it’s sobering. It’s.. surprisingly relieving to know he’s not the only one.

That he’s not objectively wrong in the head. He feels like he’s crazy surrounded by people telling him to just live life and enjoy it, like that isn’t the world’s least helpful advice at this point.

The warmth of the sun lures him to sleep. It feels like he’s a kid again, sleeping in the grass by his house. Without the weight of all the blood on his hands, without the horrible pressure of being more than human that he has inflicted upon himself with the mask.

He wouldn’t have minded falling asleep if he’d been in the shade, but moments before he’s truly asleep, he mentally grimaces at the sunburn the patches of vitiligo on his face are surely going to suffer.

It does not dissuade him from the opportunity of a very nice nap in the sun in the shockingly alive grass at this time of year.

Chapter Text

When game night rolls around, Cypher isn’t there on time. Killjoy fusses about with faux dramatics, but Sova can see the real dismay and worry behind her dramatic complaining, and he's admittedly worried too.

Sage is glaring at him as if he has any clue where Cypher went, despite Sova’s complete lack of involvement in his disappearance. He has said so multiple times; Sage however is still displeased that he’d had Cypher in his room. (How was Sova supposed to know that went against the protocol for a suicide risk? He didn’t think Cypher counted as- well, he did, but- it wasn’t his fault, is all. He just wanted Cypher to be safe .)

It was just one time he let Cypher sleep in his room! And Sage had to understand why - they all knew Cypher was a light sleeper and would never have stayed in the medical room even if he’d suddenly taken to finally doing any self care at all- the best case scenario was that he ended up under someone else’s care!

All of that is to say, Sova feels an undue amount of pressure is on him to somehow find Cypher. He doesn’t particularly want to look for Cypher, as awful as it is to admit that, a thrum of anxiety overwhelming him at the mere idea of what if -

He’s not finding Cypher again, isn’t willing to check his room and be met with no response again . He hopes that his curt “He will be fine.” as a response to the needling the other’s insist on doing isn’t too harsh. He insists to himself he trusts Cypher, insists that maybe Cypher isn’t feeling well and only agreed because Sova was pressuring him and that it wasn’t a big deal he hadn’t shown up and had not responded to any of their texts, or Killjoy’s seventeen voicemails, or-

Sova’s mild internal panic is partially put to rest when Breach, of whom he did not notice leaving, comes back with the sentinel in question slumped in his arms. Breach looks mildly entertained, and Sova is decidedly more curious about when Cypher became a deep sleeper as opposed to what Cypher must have done or, considerably more worrying, taken, to be that deep asleep.

“Guess he fell asleep outside. I took him out there to get him some fresh air and I guess he just.. Laid down and slept, or somethin.” Breach sounds particularly funny when he’s keeping his voice low. Quiet does not suit him well, and Sova stifles a near chuckle at Breach’s best attempt at it.

That is, Sova thinks in hindsight, a mistake on his part. Because Breach has never, and will never take kindly to being laughed at.

“Oh, shut up. Take your damn boyfriend back.” Breach huffs, promptly moving to drop Cypher, a grown man , a clever spy, a qualified killer, directly into his lap.

“Wh-” Sova would have argued if he didn’t promptly have to catch Cypher lest Cypher’s back collide rudely with his knees, as Breach is not exactly gentle about dropping Cypher on him. “We are not dating!” He sputters, holding Cypher in his arms moderately panicked about what one is supposed to do with the sleeping body of another.

Cypher, apparently too jostled for his liking at that point and obviously startled from the sensation of falling, blinks awake in a hurry, staring up at Sova thoughtlessly in silent confusion.

“Sasha?” Cypher prompts sleepily, squinting as if he’s not sure who he’s staring at. His voice is hoarse as he manages to articulate Sova’s name. Sova flounders for a moment because why does Cypher think instantly to call him by name, as opposed to Sova, like Cypher really should be doing.

It slips his mind to scold Cypher for it in his befuddlement.

“Amir.” Sova states his name curtly, grimacing. “Hello.” The short greeting is the best he can think of off the top of his head, not sure where to begin with explaining this to Cypher.

“Mm. Hello.” Cypher, much to Sova’s horror, relaxes into him. He grins at Sova, all too amused by the oddity of waking up here with Sova , “I didn’t know we were on a first name basis.”

“We aren’t.” Sova feels like they are way too close, and that Cypher really needs to move, because they are absolutely not that friendly. There are far too many people staring for Sova’s liking. He pushes Cypher to the side, trying to urge the man away . “You’re late to game night.”

Killjoy finally breaks and cackles at the awkward tightness in Sova’s voice, unable to contain it. The silence of everyone else is promptly broken as several of the younger agents break into hysterical laughter at Sova’s obvious dismay.

Cypher jolts up on his feet in a hurry as he apparently looks around for the first time (Sova cannot believe that Cypher was unaware of the others previously, but is far too agitated to call him out on it) and realizes he has been brought to game night against his will. Cypher sputters a rather alarmed, “ Why did you bring me here in your lap?”

“Breach carried you in and dropped you on me!” Sova immediately defends himself, unwilling to take the blame whatsoever for this , “I was going to let you be wherever on your own. I thought you just didn’t want to show up. I-”

He knows his face is much redder than he would like, and just scowls, hoping to pass off how extremely embarrassed he is as indignation or anger instead; not that he could be blamed for finding this exceptionally humiliating. 

“Breach, I am going to flay you alive.” He decidedly snaps at the Swede, who just grins. Sova considers acting on that threat more than he’d personally like to admit: what really dissuades him is the difficulty of skinning thin leather cleanly, and that is enough to put off the rather tempting urge to get into a petty fight and call tonight a loss.

“God, can you two stop beating around the bush? I didn’t even know you could get that red, Sova.” Breach mocks , and Sova privately laments the man is well out of his reach because Sova would have loved an opportunity to hit him. Sova is not a violent man, but if he were to be , it would surely be Breach’s fault.

“Jett, can you just shuffle the uno cards already? Who’s actually playing?” Killjoy says between stifled giggles, evidently trying to spare the both of them the humiliation of being laughed at. Sova sneaks a glance at Cypher who is staring at Breach with a betrayed expression. He suspects that neither of them feel very spared in this interaction.

“I'm playing.” Sova says after a moment decidedly, exhaling a deep breath to steady himself as he leans in toward the coffee table they’ve always used as a game table.

Killjoy wiggles her eyebrows playfully and asks him, “And your boyfriend?”

Cypher stares at her in disbelief, sputtering to disagree himself, and Sova decides he may as well double down on their game. “He’ll play too.” Sova declares, cracking a smile, and Cypher just blinks at him before shaking his head and wordlessly sitting next to Sova.

Despite the rather eventful start; the game continues about as usual. Omen shows up a little late and the dealt cards end up slightly out of order as he’s haphazardly added into the game, and Phoenix has already shown the majority of the table his cards by dropping them as soon as he picked up his hand.

It is about halfway through the game, on Cypher’s turn, where Cypher plainly looks right over at Sova’s cards. Appalled by the audacity, he levels Cypher with an odd look; he’d have thought Cypher would at least be subtle about it if Cypher was going to cheat.

“I'm helping you,” Cypher claims, in defense of himself. “Trying, anyhow. My hand was terrible.” And he promptly plays a wild card; changing the color to blue. Sova looks down at his hand of blue cards now that it’s his turn, thinking, before deciding he’ll just let it happen.

“What cards do you have?” He asks idly, because he may as well see what Cypher has, if Cypher’s going to look at his cards first. Cypher turns them toward Sova just a bit and Sova has to do everything he can to keep a straight face when he sees that Cypher has four separate +2 cards, and a +4, alongside three random red cards.

“Very bad hand,” Cypher laments, and Sova can’t believe the man. Sova laughs, even though he knows better to encourage the man.

Cypher smiles just a little at his laugh. He looks much, much too proud of that achievement.

“I thought you would have cheated. I suppose you couldn’t this time, but really?” Sova says it in earnest, struggling to not laugh. Cypher has openly cheated in these games before- only bending to rules when caught- and Sova has long since come to the conclusion that Cypher will win every game that he cares enough to win. But for Cypher to still get a good hand just by luck? Insanity, in Sova’s opinion, that Cypher could have still won this game, too.

“I'm offended you would think that.” Cypher acts scandalized, before huffing a laugh of his own. “Also, I could have prepared uno cards in the couch cushions. I could have cheated if I wanted to,” Cypher insists, leaning into him, like they’re friends - Sova pushes him away.

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you kept Uno cards on you just to cheat on the fly. I don’t know why you think I would put that behind you.” Sova scoffs and Cypher stifles another laugh, gesturing for him to just play already.

Cypher’s brown eyes catch the light overhead, shining bright with excitement, and Sova suddenly has to remember not to stare- playing a card at random with an indignant shake of his head in disappointment. He’s lucky it’s a regular blue card; unsure how he’d recover if he’d played the wrong one.

The others playing just seem entertained as the spy is, utterly enthralled by the change in rules. Killjoy and Raze promptly start sharing cards, though, Sova can see Phoenix is just plainly getting to stare at both of their cards because they are substantially worse at it; and Phoenix doesn’t even try to be subtle about staring at both of their hands. The game continues almost as normal; though, Sova tries to make sure that his turn is always before Cypher’s; he certainly doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of Cypher’s cards.

It is at some point toward the end of it where Cypher gets down to one card where Cypher nudges him. “Switch hands?” He offers casually. And Sova supposes that it’s more entertaining to agree, so they do, much to Killjoy’s dismay.

“ What are you two doing? That's- That can’t be allowed.” She barks at them, evidently personally offended by this complete betrayal of the idea behind Uno. Cypher just sits back, now cradling six cards, grinning.

“House rules, Habibi. You could switch with anyone else who's willing,” Cypher says, as if he has any idea what he’s on about, because he certainly has no right to just alter rules, and switch hands at will is not a house rule that anyone here is familiar with.

Killjoy fusses over it, and they laugh about it for a little before eventually Sova is allowed to keep the one card; and wins, because Cypher again sets him up for success by switching the color to match the singular card he has, much to the dismay of everyone else.

It is extremely entertaining; and he gets the feeling it is the only reason Cypher cares to play at all. Cypher seemed exceptionally bored before his antics, and Sova couldn’t blame him- they’ve played hundreds of times by now, and Cypher has never been very social during gamenights.

The game afterward is twice as chaotic as teams are decided: Raze and Killjoy partner together with Breach as their cheerleader, Sage and Omen ‘work together’ (but refrain from the blatant sharing of cards, and instead just try to blindly play together), he and Cypher continue to play together since he can’t talk Cypher out of not doing that, and Jett just keeps trying to find increasingly unlikely reasons for Phoenix to draw more cards of which he somehow gets stuck drawing cards over despite no rules ever backing up Jett’s claims.

It’s barely Uno, admittedly, but it is extremely fun, and the game lasts much longer when people are trading cards openly and declaring alliances and enemies on a whim. At some point, Raze plays a pokemon card (Sova isn’t sure where she got it. Or why she brought it.) and it goes entirely unquestioned because she points at one of the numbers on it as if they match, and everyone decides it’s funnier to allow it.

Unfortunately, Sova doesn’t even come close to winning that one. Raze ends up winning, and by then, it’s once again getting late and people begin to disperse from the game table; cards put away, empty plates of snacks brought back to the kitchen, soda cans tossed out. Sova is one of the first to dismiss himself from the gathering; opting to head to the range to tire himself out lest all the excitement keep him up all night.

For once, Sova finds time to practice uninterrupted. It’s something he realizes he’s missed, in hindsight. He hasn’t neglected himself- not at all, he’s followed routine as usual, stubborn, because if he were to let those habits slip- The idea irks him.

But he’s spent a lot more time staring at the walls recently. Waiting, idle. He sometimes hesitates when he passes by the medbay, still. Then he drags himself to the next thing of no interest- some chore, some task, some favor- just to stay busy.

It hasn’t been long enough to call it a broken habit, either. He’s just been busy lately, really- it feels like it’s been so, so much longer than it has been. It hasn’t been a full week, even, but he hasn’t felt very present for any of it. It remains a blur of panic, disgust, and anger in his mind, swirling together into something Sova chooses to not think too hard about lest he rekindle any of it.

It’s a relief to finally shoot his bow again. The exercise is nice. It makes him uneasy, still, to stand where Cypher stood with a gun one of these nights.

(He doesn’t remember exactly when, anymore. He’s been marking his calendar as he always does. Regardless, he hasn’t read it once this week.)

It’s easy to run through drills. Practice his weaknesses, hone his strengths- the fact it was physically exhausting was a mere bonus on top of getting the satisfying thrill of results with every single arrow. He has not lost his edge; every single shot proves to be adequate.

(Sova thinks that the others call many of his shots perfect. None of them are. It could always be faster, cleaner, better. Every second of delay it takes him to calculate a bounce, or aim is a second that could cost a life in battle. But it is, objectively, good. )

He does his usual half an hour of drills for warm up. Then, it’s a little too late to run through a full training session, so he wills himself to hang up his equipment and retire to his quarters with the satisfaction of proving that he is good.

(He is good enough, his score tells him. For now. It is satisfactory.)

He’s surprisingly worn out when he gets to his room. He practically stumbles in, uncaring of perfect posture for the time being, sheds his coat, boots, and shirt, and fumbles to recollect his blankets from the edges of the bed in order to drag them over himself.

(He hadn’t noticed Cypher had meticulously arranged every single blanket until now. He cannot fathom why, so he does not question it.)

Sleep takes him easier than it has in a while. He manages to focus on the weariness of his body over worrying himself to death, and comfortably drifts off before he can overthink too badly.



The following days are even more monotonous. He barely sees Cypher around for a few days- when he does, the man is masked and offers him little more than nods or little waves as they pass in the halls. They don't talk much in passing- they never did, and Sova does not think to start now.

He acts just like he did before he shot himself, Sova thinks, when he sees Cypher. He intentionally tries to not think about it too hard, as with most things. Cypher walks with the same sway of his hips, and Sova hears him laughing sometimes with Killjoy when he passes by the workshop. It falls back to routine, and Sova is not one to fall behind if they are to be moving on now.

He tries to stay out of Cypher’s way. It’s a courtesy; the spy surely holds it against him for being there while Cypher was vulnerable, so he offers distance, and Cypher, in turn, must take advantage of that, for by the third day they don’t cross paths at all.

Sova does not acknowledge that it bothers him to give Cypher space. His feelings matter little compared to Cypher’s comfort. He maintains that distance between them with ease; it is no issue to ignore the temptation to visit- not to talk, but just to check in- and instead do something more meaningful and productive.

It’s even easier when he’s sent out to Icebox with some others to fend off their omega earth counterparts. He doesn’t fret so much over it when there are so much worse things to worry about- such as the lives of his friends and coworkers. It slips his mind in the thrill of battle, smothered under gunshots and shouted comms, and is fully silenced by a bullet wedged in one of Sova’s ribs that makes it too hard to think about anything .

It’s a success. Sova and Viper are injured; Jett is dead, but they are victorious.

It does not feel like victory, half sitting half lying on a reclined seat in the VLTR, gritting his teeth as Viper tries to tend to his wounds first and foremost so that he does not bleed out. It’s cold, and while he loves the chilly winds on his skin, it is effectively torture to have freezing antiseptic dabbed on a gunshot wound. Jett is gingerly laid over a different seat toward the back in his peripheral. Sage will not see to her for about six hours, when they arrive back at base.

(Sage will not see to him for about six hours, and if Viper does not hurry up , there are about to be three dead bodies: Jett, Viper, and himself.)

Some (rather useless) painkillers, a healthy amount of swearing, a few threats from Viper to get him to stay still, and Chamber’s unhelpful commentary that made violence seem substantially more appealing later, Sova is finally graced with the ability to just lay there undisturbed with bandages around his midsection and at last allowed to put his jacket back on to stave off the cold from his aching body.

He doesn’t sleep through the flight. He’s mostly spaced out, fortunately; he doesn’t think too hard about the casualty nor his injuries. He is guided out of the VLTR when they land by Fade, gently coaxed to stand and urged toward the medbay. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s grateful in private. Fade does not ask about how spacey he is, he does not offer, and besides a slight limp, he can easily walk alongside her to Sage.

He doesn’t listen to much of what Sage says when she heals him. She gives him some advice, likely, perhaps asks him a few things- he answers as needed, and finds himself back in his room to go to bed early and rest off the residual flares of pain that stubbornly assault him despite the lack of any real injury- nerves keen to misfire over nothing.

He does not stay asleep long. He wakes to a set of knocks at his door. The first set of knocks he is convinced that he is imagining it, for no one should have been bothering him until morning. The second set of knocks- quiet, but urgent in rhythm- make him get out of bed, too tired to bother finding a shirt in the dark, so he just answers it in his undershirt.

It is Cypher. Sova blinks once, then twice. Cypher does not meet his eyes; he’s stiff as a board, staring pointedly toward the walls, as he asks, “....can I come in?”

It’s surely sometime around midnight. Sova can’t imagine what Cypher needs at this hour from him. The spy does not so much as shift his weight awkwardly in the following silence, just remains tense, hands folded neatly behind his back.

Sova moves aside from the door, and allows Cypher in. Cypher hesitates anyways.

“Come in. Sit.” Sova tells him, voice rough with sleep. He returns to his bed after shutting the door. Cypher does not sit in the chair at his desk- instead, he sits at the foot of Sova’s bed, staring at the door, back straight as ever.

“Are you ok?” Sova asks, finally. It’s a strange time to show up, stranger to just silently sit by Sova, and even stranger that Cypher seems so high strung.

Cypher does not react. Sova asks again, and Cypher briefly looks at him for just a moment, and still does not answer.

“What happened?” Cypher shakes his head a little, replies with ’nothing.’ in a thin voice. Sova doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Do you want the lights on?” Sova asks, next, after a bit. In case Cypher wants to.. He doesn’t know, really, just asks out of politeness because they’re both currently sitting in the dark. Cypher shakes his head in no again.

He gives up on asking questions, and grabs one of the blankets he’d kicked to the side in order to throw it over Cypher’s lap. Cypher flinches, startled, and looks at him with wide eyes.

He levels Cypher with a stare of his own, unanswering. Cypher caves first, “what?”

“You’re tense.” Sova says simply, “relax.” He pulls a different blanket over himself, laying back down.

He can’t really sleep like this- his legs are curled up to not kick Cypher, and he likes to stretch out- but he won’t just stare at Cypher when he’s feeling this loopy. The painkillers he’d taken before bed are probably in full effect now, and he feels fuzzy overall. The phantom pain has waned by now with some rest, and he can’t exactly think too hard about any of this between the exhaustion and fuzzy feeling.

Cypher eventually leans back against the wall his bed is up against, and fidgets with the blanket in his lap. He does not relax, but he does stop staring only at the door, and looks around the room more. Sova pretends to not notice when Cypher looks back at him, and then sharply looks away.

“Nightmare?” Sova guesses out of nowhere. Cypher jolts a little at his voice, and Sova frowns. Cypher gives the slightest nod in response. Sova does not expect any more information than that.

“Sorry,” Cypher offers, quietly. “I'm sorry.” He pulls at the blankets over himself, nervously winds his fingers together, and just stares down at his hands.

“Why?” Sova isn’t bothered by this. He’s confused, not angry. Cypher seems surprised, gestures weakly about himself and then just gives up without saying anything.

“You’re hurt,” Cypher eventually states, “what happened?” It’s a bad conversation starter. It’s likely said just to prompt Sova into filling the silence. Sova obliges him anyways.

“I took too long. And got shot.” It’s not glamorous, to say out loud. He shrugs to himself, “It was a success in the end. It went well.”

(It did not go well enough. Someone died. It was not his fault, but if he had been more aggressive, if he had pushed before Jett could-)

Cypher clearly doesn’t know how to continue the conversation, judging by the awkward lapse in it. He eventually manages, “Are.. you ok?”

Sova nods, “I will be,” He assures. “And you?” Sova will try again. Cypher looks away, and Sova expects his question to be ignored again.

“I don’t.. Know.” Cypher admits instead. Sova sits up, wanting to get a better look at Cypher; he’d try to read whatever was on Cypher’s face, but the damn mask stands between them, and he is left to study Cypher’s nervous body language instead. Cypher half turns away from him, disliking the attention.

Sova frowns. Cypher balls his hands into fists before forcing them to relax, “don’t look at me like that,” Cypher snaps at him. Sova huffs indignantly in response.

“I'm worried ,” Sova counters, “I want to help you. I don’t know how.”

“Don’t, then.” Cypher hisses, looking back at him sharply. Sova can’t imagine what he’s done to offend the man, doesn’t know how to remedy it, and flounders to find something to diffuse the situation.

Then Cypher abruptly deflates, bowing his head, “sorry.” His voice shakes just a little, and Sova doesn’t know what to say, so he just sits back, and lets them fall back into that tense, awkward silence.

“I'm going to bed.” Sova decides, at last. He’s too out of it to figure out what Cypher wants, so he forfeits this confusing interaction. “You can stay, if you want.”

Cypher shrugs, awkwardly, and Sova leaves it at that. He rolls over onto his side, tries to find some comfortable position for his legs, and just pulls the covers over himself. The medication he’d been given by Sage- painkillers, and judging by how tired he is, probably some sleep medicine- is surely the only reason he can willingly go back to sleep, and he is grateful that Cypher’s presence doesn’t keep him up.

He wakes up some time in the morning, and finds Cypher gone from his bed. He lazily drags himself out of bed to go to the bathroom and immediately finds Cypher asleep in his chair. The spy’s head is in his arms, hat on the floor next to him, and while it cannot possibly be a comfortable way to sleep, Sova decides not to disturb Cypher.

He goes through his everyday routine as usual, except that he opts to dress in the bathroom. Cypher is awake- still sitting at the chair, hat back on his head- when Sova exits the bathroom with damp hair.

“Sova, I- I must apologize for disturbing you last night, I am so sorry for waking you, and I assure you-” Cypher immediately bursts into quick paced apologies and excuses, and Sova just shakes his head.

“You’re alright, Cypher. Calm down.” Sova cuts him off before Cypher can continue much further, “What happened?”

Cypher does not seem to like the question, judging by the way he picks at the arm rests of Sova’s chair, but begrudgingly provides: “I did not want to be alone. Again, I'm sorry.” It's not much. Sova does not press for more info anyways, even though he thinks he probably should to figure out Cypher's mental wellbeing.

“I'm not upset, you know.” Sova says, a bit softer, sighing. “It’s ok. I promise.”

Cypher slumps a little, looks away, and shrugs. “..thank you.” He finally says, just as softly, and promptly goes to flee; hurrying out the room uncontested. Sova does not stop him.

He doesn't know what to think of Cypher right now- what to think about Cypher showing up to his room out of all people to not be alone after a nightmare- but he needs to visit Sage again, and then he’s supposed to take it easy for the rest of the day, so he will just once more not acknowledge it for now.

He promises to himself that he’ll visit Cypher later today. Perhaps with lunch in hand: check in, talk, and leave, assured that Cypher is doing better.

For now, though, he needs to go shrug off Sage for the next thirty minutes while she insists on doing a check up that he really doesn’t need.