Mathématique: Chapter 83

Into Young’s mind came the image of John Sheppard as the Duke of Marlborough, bold and deceptive, marching his army 250 miles to the Danube, the 1704 wind lifting his red officer’s coat.

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges.

Text iteration: Early.

Additional notes: None

Chapter 83

0200 found Young still in the darkened infirmary, gate-lagged and exhausted, reclining on Nick Rush’s abandoned gurney.

Rush sat at Young’s bedside, ankle propped on knee, and stared into the shadows of the sea-toned ceiling with the gear-and-grind body language of a guy multiplying seven-digit numbers in his head.

Bad day in the quantum multiverse?

Rush had asked him the question in a twilit New York City alley. Young was tempted to turn it around on him, just to see what would happen. But given the transdimensional pressures that had nearly killed Jackson ten days back, the idea felt like a shot in the dark in a room full of friends.

So Young said nothing.

In the next bed, John Sheppard slept face down. His sidearm, still strapped to his thigh, was half covered by a sheet. His fixed-blade survival knife canted over the curve of his hip.

Colorado Springs wasn’t even a day behind them. Already, it felt like a lifetime.

Young replayed the day—the problems on Midway, Shep and Rush’s city-morphing arrival, the disappearing control crystal, his neighbor’s miraculous workaround for his own cognitive suppressor field, the hug Shep had given Rush afterward. He paused there. That hug had been raw and long. Something had happened during their shared coma. And there’d been a strange intensity in the way Shep had talked Rush into participating in the Astria Porta campaign that had soaked up the evening. The gaming session had absorbed both of them, but when Young looked over Rush’s shoulder, all he saw was standard video game fare—a mirrored dragon, an orchard, a man trapped in a tree.

Whatever was happening between the pair of them, they weren’t talking about it directly.

After Rush had dropped a few lines about the quantum multiverse, Young had been working the idea that his neighbor might be in play the same way Jackson was. Rush knew more than he would say, at least until Young somehow got up to speed on the concept of “superposition.”

The new piece in all of this was Shep. Young had a hunch that Atlantis’s ranking officer might be firing a braking burn around the same transdimensional star that had drawn Jackson and Rush in.

Young rubbed his jaw. He didn’t like any of this.

The personal realm, too, was turning complicated.

Young had been falling in dead-end love with Nick Rush for months. Typical. Dumb as hell. He’d come across a man or a woman bold enough to ignite like a chemical rocket, he’d get a little encouragement in return, didn’t even have to be much. And? Game over. The same phenomenon had kick-started then ruined his marriage. Nick Rush had been perfect because he was unattainable. More than that, he’d been romantically unassailable. No tactical approach possible.

But then, he’d lost his memories. And, with them, all his grief-forged armor. And now, he was warm, he had follow-through, he had charm in spades. He was unpredictable and terrifying in equal parts. He drove Young crazy. He drove Young full stop.

Rush angled his head and his hair picked up streaks of the infirmary’s undersea light. He dropped his ankle from his knee, shifted forward, and—

Hastily, Young shut his eyes.

With the world gone, his back ached, deep and hot and sunk into his neighbor’s bed. In the silence, Young heard the hum of the living city. Atop it came the whisper of shifting clothes. Rush was on his feet. As usual, the man’s shoes were off. He was a quiet mover. He could be anywhere in the room.

All Young heard was Shep’s rhythmic breathing.

Shep-on-Earth, his attention hollowed out by the dream of leaving, was a castle out of Kafka. Hard to define, let alone approach, with easygoing outbuildings fortifying a mad central tower. Shep-on-Atlantis felt different. Plugged in. Crackling with energy.

Eyes closed, Young stretched his aching spine against the soft give of the bed.

Into his mind came the image of John Sheppard as the Duke of Marlborough, bold and deceptive, marching his army 250 miles to the Danube, the 1704 wind lifting his red officer’s coat while Young, at Lutzingen, forded the Nebel’s marshy waters in August heat, gaining inch after inch of broken, uphill ground—until Shep’s cavalry swept the center and split the Franco-Bavarian army.

God damn.

He and Shep had the makings of a Blenheim-level team, the kind that was rare across the whole of military history. Their tactical gifts were perfect inverses: Young was methodical; Sheppard was wild. Young held lines; Sheppard turned lines to dynamic advances and collapses, the kind that could rout a lost and hypercompetent professor of mathematics back into the heart of the SGC.

Was there a way for him and Shep, Rush and Jackson, to win the coming war?

Young cracked an eyelid.

He found Nick Rush standing above him, deep-sea light caught in the frames of his glasses, a mixture of concern and Machiavellian charm on his face. “I had the feeling you were awake.”

Young tried not to flush. Failed. Hopefully the light was too dim and sea-toned to give him away. “You got about ten times more charisma than a math professor from California really needs, you know that?”

Rush arched an is-that-right eyebrow. 

All they shouldn’t talk about resonated between them. 

“This is tough.” Young cast an ambiguous line and hoped for a bite.

Rush glanced at Sheppard’s sleeping form, then nodded.

Young had the feeling that if he said just the right thing in this precise moment, it might be enough to reel the pair of them in. “Tell me what’s so important about the word ‘superposition’,” he said.

His neighbor gave him a searching look. The night air took on summer-storm charge. Many things seemed possible—the sharing of secrets, the winning of wars, the press of two bodies in the same narrow bed.

Young held Rush’s gaze.

“I’m afraid,” his neighbor said, “that until you can tell me what’s so important about it, we’ll remain at an impasse.”

Young took the hit. 

The infirmary doors slid open and Vala entered, leaning into her cane.

Rush turned.

“Hello gorgeous,” Vala said softly, mindful of Sheppard’s face-down sprawl. She gave her terrestrial BFF a bright smile, then her gaze settled on Young. “Handsome.”

“Hey,” Young rasped.

Without being invited, Vala eased herself onto the end of the bed.

Young shifted to make space for her.

“Should y’not be sleeping?” Rush asked.

“I should,” she replied. “In the Sand Suite, no less. I’ll give you a tour tomorrow; it’s a must-see.” With the help of her hands, she crossed her injured leg over the uninjured one, then swept her hair to one side like she was posing for a picture rather than sneaking into the infirmary at 0200. “I was looking for your colonel.”

“Which one?” Young asked.

“Oh, the original, of course.” Vala met his eyes. “It’s Daniel.” She pasted on a bright smile in the dim light. “I’m hoping you might talk some sense into him. Usually I’d rely on Teal’c for this, but he’s busy deracinating psychotropic corn, so—” Her shell of cheer and charm cracked, but just as quick she saved it, smiling again at Young, strong and short.

“I gotta keep an eye on this one.” Young indicated Rush with his thumb.

“I thought we came to Atlantis so I could escape the need for constant security?” Rush asked.

“No.” Young geared up for a lecture. “You’re a Planetary Asset. You have a dedicated SG team assigned to you, full time. You—”

Before he could get going, Vala broke in. “I noticed your determined young sergeant stationed right outside this door?” She appealed to Young with broken-lacquer poise.

And it wasn’t like it took a lot of convincing. Young had been worried about Jackson for weeks. Since before his most recent brush with Ascension, before his talk of Ancient weapons, before he’d coached Vala through a soul-shredding memory reclamation. 

“Where is he?” Young asked.

“At the overlook between our rooms.” Vala couldn’t conceal the note of relief in her voice. “You’ll see. When you get there, you’ll understand what I mean.”

Young locked eyes with her.

She gave him a small nod. “Thank you, handsome. I—I wasn’t helping.”

“Not sure I’ll do any better,” Young said.

“There’s no way you’ll do worse.” She pulled a handful of dark hair over one shoulder. Tossed it back. “I’ll guard this one.” She indicated Rush with a gleaming cobalt fingernail. “With my very life.”

Rush huffed. “I’m a good sight more capable than either of you at the moment.”

“Very true, gorgeous. Can I sleep in your bed while you keep watch?”

“Yes,” Rush said.

“No,” Young growled.

“And this,” Vala gestured at Young like she was leading a museum tour, “is why you wait until overbearing Air Force personnel leave before you initiate a change in strategy.”

“Noted.” Rush tried not to smirk.

Young got to his feet, plucked his cane out of its lean against the wall, then pressed a hand to the ache in his back. “Watch him.” He looked pointedly at Rush.

With mock solemnity, Vala saluted. “Tomorrow, handsome, we’ll do another round with that healing device.”

Young nodded, then limped out of the infirmary.

~~~

The night breeze was cool, and unfamiliar stars spread thick across the sky. Atlantis gleamed, limned with the shine of running water. It flowed down towers and along halls and footpaths.

On a wide silver parapet overlooking the sea, Daniel Jackson sat with legs crossed, his hands palm-up on his knees. His eyes were closed, his chin tipped to the sky. Starlight and city light shone in the tracks of tears that had flowed down his cheeks.

Young hesitated, leaning into his cane, watching something that might be a mistake to interrupt.

It was easy to peg Jackson as an overworked eccentric, an academic with a bladed moral compass, a nerd with celestial backing that tended to leak through. But, as Young watched him sitting on that rail, almost aglow with borrowed light, all he could think of was the man fighting his own grief beneath turning leaves, describing Vala’s dreams of gold hallways, of battles in space, fought at great remove. The way he’d looked, newly descended, wearing supernatural khakis beneath a mountain, confused, losing his glow, full of grief and hope, as though something he loved was being stripped and returned while all he could feel was the going and coming of it.

Young stopped a span of balcony away.

Jackson’s hands were open, like he hoped something would be given, or, maybe, taken away. What was he asking for, eyes closed, head tipped to stars he couldn’t see? Was the real battle of their time taking place in Jackson’s head and heart? And how long had Vala stood, watching Jackson from the sidelines before going on offense with pieced-together memories and her heart on her sleeve?

Young leaned into the parapet. He felt like the only guy on a transdimensional battlefield with no perspective on the terrain. Maybe that could change.

Stories below, waves broke against Sanctuary Quay.

Quietly, experimentally, Young spoke into the night air.

“He’s the best we’re ever gonna do,” he murmured, eyes on Jackson, speaking for his species, addressing the cosmic observers everyone seemed sure were hanging around. “If help’s gonna come, there won’t be a better time. A better person.”

For the span of two heartbeats, a familiar silhouette appeared in his peripheral vision. Nick Rush, dressed in black and starlight, sat on the parapet at his shoulder, looking at Jackson. Even as Young took him in—strange clothes, stranger eyes, his hair stealing shades of night and streaks of light—he was gone.

Young blinked hard.

He didn’t reappear.

Young’s heart pounded, unsure of itself. His jaw clamped shut. His thoughts ached with hope and fear and uncertainty. He didn’t speak. He said nothing aloud, even though he burned with the desire to call out, to verify, to lock down what he could no longer see.

A trick of the starlight? It had to be more than that. An ascended being taking on Rush’s appearance to muddy the waters? An ascended being taking on Rush’s appearance to clarify the waters? What was he supposed to take from that?

It had been Rush but not Rush at the same time: eerie amber eyes, clothes of an unfamiliar cut, possessed of an otherworldly beauty that seemed an extension of Atlantis herself.

Young could say only one thing for sure. The person he’d seen hadn’t been his neighbor.

Jackson’s eyes opened, glittering with trapped light.

Young walked forward, his cane ringing on the silver alloy at his feet.

Jackson ducked his head, wiped his eyes with both hands, and did his best to dredge up a smile. “Hey.” His voice was thick with tears queued to fall. “Sorry. Just uh. Trying.”

“Yeah.” Young felt none too steady himself.

Half of him wanted to tell Jackson what he’d just seen. Get his take. Capture even a fraction of all the man wouldn’t speak aloud.

Half of him wanted to tell Jackson that it was all right. That they’d make it all right. That the world wasn’t as hard as it was beautiful. That they could save themselves from mistakes and mischance because that was how things worked in a world that was just.

But the world wasn’t just.

It never had been. The builders of these spun-sugar towers of starlight and crystal were gone. The Wraith roved the skies of countless worlds. The galaxy had spent thousands and thousands of years under the yoke of the Goa’uld.

Young posted up next to Jackson. They looked out at the night-dark sea. Something too large for words resonated between them in the tropics-warm air. So—

“Vala sent me,” was all Young said.

Jackson nodded.

“Jackson,” Young began.

But Jackson sobbed a laugh. “Give ‘Dan’ a try, maybe.”

“Thought you said no one’d been able to pull it off.”

“I did say that.” Jackson wiped his face. “It’s feeling a little less true for some reason. Not sure why.”

“Dan,” Young said.

“I don’t hate it,” Jackson whispered.

“Maybe,” Young said, throat tight, “maybe you try talking about the thing without talking about the thing. Say what you can. I won’t ask you any questions.”

“I like that.” He sniffed, looking out to sea. “That’s—helpful.”

“I been around a block or two at this point,” Young said.

Jackson’s expression cracked. Reformed. Cracked again. “There’ll be a time, I think, when you need to stop Vala.”

“Oh,” Young whispered. “Is that all? Sounds easy.”

Jackson smiled through his tears. “You’ll know when.”

“Dan. C’mon.”

“I hope I’ll always remember her breaking into that isolation room.” Jackson smiled, but another tear leaked from the corner of his eye. “Wearing that hospital gown like a queen.”

“You think that was something, you shoulda seen her commandeer the Odyssey just to use their transporter,” Young said.

“I don’t know if it was her, or something I saw when I was—” Jackson lifted a hand. “But after I descended, for a few days there, I felt better. Hopeful. Like real help was coming.”

Young nodded.

“But being here,” Jackson continued in a ragged whisper, “seeing Atlantis, I’m less optimistic.”

“I’m getting that,” Young rasped.

“Maybe it’s how empty the city feels.” Jackson swallowed. “Maybe it’s that Morgan directed me here, but won’t or can’t answer when I call.”

“Everyone you’ve helped,” Young said, forcing the words through a too-tight throat, “everyone you’ve saved, all those worlds and dimensions and lives—you don’t think someone’s gonna show for you, when it’s time?”

“I don’t know.” Jackson looked up at the stars.

Waves broke at the base of the spire.

A gentle breeze lifted Young’s curls and the edges of Jackson’s open jacket.

“What do you think David’s doing right now?” Jackson asked.

The question split Young like a knife, severing memory along a hero/traitor line. “In my better moments,” Young said, “I like to think he’s on our side. That he knows what he’s doing. That everything he’s done is about stopping the Ori. Why do you ask?”

“Because for some reason,” Jackson glanced at Young and offered a wan smile, “when I look at all this water, my mind is full of him. A particular thing he said. About how to win the war.”

Young breathed through the image of David Telford, laughing at death on an ash-covered hillside. “What was it?”

“It would come down to messaging,” Jackson rasped.

“Messaging?”

Jackson shook his head, ducking the question. “He loved science.”

Young’s throat ached. “I know.”

“And coercive persuasion destroys LA scientists,” Jackson continued, making an argument, “and I like to think David was close enough to count. Nothing about him was lesser. He was as sharp as ever, right up to the day he took Nick. I hope his mind was his own. That he made his own choices. That he did what he did to you with a higher goal in mind. That he didn’t like the LA any more than he liked the SGC.”

Young swallowed. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he threw that Au Coeur op. Let us get outta there with Rush. Shot Vala by accident, aiming for Ginn.”

Jackson smiled through his tears with what looked like genuine hope. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s something,” Jackson breathed, and dried his tears on the edge of an alien tower under unfamiliar stars.

~~~

Young groaned when his phone alarm went off, his body and mind protesting the light already hammering his closed eyelids.

He woke in his bedroom to the tail-end of a spectacular dawn: a floor-to-ceiling view of the pastel sea split by a road of shimmer that led to the rising sun. The shell tones of the room and the tint in the windows softened the morning glare.

Young threw back cream-colored sheets, mindful of his back. When he had his feet beneath him, he limped across the floor in nothing but his boxers and stood in front of the windows, surveying a world of water.

He had to admit, his neglected physical therapy routine had a little more appeal when done in the light of a tropical dawn. He pulled a set of Lantean fatigues out of his coral-inspired wardrobe, dressed, and looked himself over in the limestone-rimmed mirror. 

The summer had taken its toll. The fall had been worse. He’d lost weight. Lost muscle. His hair had grown beyond the limits of a regulation cut. When he met his own gaze, he saw a bruised uncertainty. The kind that came from taking hits out of nowhere. Not just hits he hadn’t seen coming, hits he hadn’t known could come.

The guy in the mirror seemed like he knew how to do a little more than buckle down and grind to a place of positional advantage.

Young sure hoped so.

He left his rooms and descended the reversed coil of the ramp that led down to the six rooms that had belonged to Moros’s retinue. The three doors on the inner portion of the suite’s curl were shut; his team had claimed their rooms, presumably. He passed through the empty security station and into the common area where Eli’s gaming equipment had been set up. 

The room was a mess.

Eli was passed out on the couch, head thrown back, a controller in hand, surrounded by the shed wrappers of half a dozen candy bars. The kid’s suitcase was open, spilling clothes and toiletries and comic books like a wild animal had torn it apart.

“Eli,” Young barked.

“Whuh?” The kid blearily opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“0600,” Young said. “I want this cleaned up by 0630.”

“No, but what time is it really?” Eli mumbled. “Earth time.”

“There is no Earth time,” Young said. “We’re on Atlantis time, and it’s 0600. We’re gonna have a briefing in here as soon as Rush is released from the infirmary. Pick a room beyond the security station, move in, and clean this place up. You can’t live in the common area.”

“The boss said he and I are staying on Earth time,” Eli objected.

“I’m the boss,” Young shot back. “Clean this up. Eat breakfast. Then come back here, and wait for the briefing.”

“You’re not the boss.” Eli got unsteadily to his feet and started on the candy bar wrappers. “Where’s the garbage, even?”

“Figure it out, boy wonder,” Young threw back over his shoulder as he headed for the vestibule and the exit beyond. 

The morning wind was cool and smelled like the sea. Young walked the span between the Nautilus Suite and the Sand Suite, then gently tapped the door, wondering if Jackson was awake.

No answer.

From behind him, a genial voice said, “Colonel! You’re an early riser, I see.”

Woolsey.

Young turned. “Administrator.”

“Please,” Woolsey said. “Call me Dick.”

“Uh, sure.” Young gestured at Jackson’s door. “I was just—”

“In my experience, 0600 is far too early to find Dr. Jackson up and about,” Woolsey said. “Nor can I imagine Vala Mal Doran waking before noon.” He gave Young a dark and knowing look. “Please. Join me for breakfast.”

Without other options, Young motioned the man to lead the way.

“How did you find your rooms?” Woolsey asked as they strolled beside the same silver parapet where Young had stood with Jackson the previous night.

“Incredible.” Young’s eyes lingered on the place where the apparition of Rush had appeared.

Woolsey smiled. “Once Dr. Rush is firmly on his feet, I’d love to host the pair of you for dinner. The Athosians hunt a small bird on the mainland that tastes just like chicken. Well, chicken with a hint of duck. It’s delightful. And Athosian wine; I can’t say enough about it. Admittedly, it lacks the mineral complexity of Burgundy’s stony slopes, but it has an Italian boldness to it.”

“Sounds great,” Young said as they stepped into the transport alcove.

“Have you met Teyla?” Woolsey hit the controls.

“In passing,” Young said.

“You must get to know her. She’s been educating me on Athosian cultural practices. I’d love to see the relationship between her people and the Expedition personnel deepen. Trade is one thing, but nothing brings people together like shared customs. She often eats early. Maybe we’ll run into her.”

Woolsey held up more than his share of conversation as Young oriented himself in shining silver halls etched with abstract maritime art.

The mess, like everything else in the city, was beautiful. Food serving stations led to an indoor/outdoor court, split by panes of sliding glass. This morning they were open, and the sea-scented air blew through the mess, temperate and warm.

The administrator loaded up Young’s tray with the best of the breakfast on offer, then led the way to a table where Teyla sat alone, working through a bowl of oatmeal and fruit.

“Teyla,” Woolsey said. “Would you mind if we joined you?”

“Please.” She smiled. “Sit.”

“This is Colonel Young,” Woolsey said. “And, colonel, this is Teyla.”

“Hi.” Young placed his tray on the table, leaned his cane against its edge, and lowered himself into his seat.

Teyla waited until Young had settled himself, her expression warm. The morning light shone in her honey-brown hair. “Welcome to Atlantis.”

“Thanks,” Young replied.

“How are you finding your stay thus far?” Teyla asked.

“Great,” Young said. “Very, uh—”

“Oh there’s time for all of this later.” Woolsey leaned forward conspiratorially. “How’d it go?”

With an innocent smile, Teyla took a spoonful of oatmeal and offered Woolsey a small shrug.

“What are we talking about?” Young asked.

“Oh, only the most popular leisure activity in the city.” Woolsey made a rapid circular hand gesture, his eyes on Teyla. “Spill, Ms. Emmagan, please!”

Teyla turned to Young, and her poised politesse seemed calculated to increase Woolsey’s excitement. “Livestreams of Astria Porta have become city-wide events,” she explained. “There will be even more interest, I expect, given the rising mathematical stakes of the game.”

Young shoveled a root-vegetable hash onto his fork. “I’ve heard something about that.” He bit into something that seemed a little more carrot-y than potato-y. It wasn’t bad.

“Astria Porta fans were crushed to lose Teyla, Camantha, and Commander Effect to what Colonel Sheppard has dubbed ‘The A-Team’.” Woolsey gave Young a significant look. “Of course, no one expects to have a front row seat to the genuine work of cypher solving. But there’s quite a bit of excitement around the emerging B-team. Lots of unknowns. A mix of low and high level players. Makes things interesting.” Woolsey leaned forward. “How do you think they’ll fare on their first campaign?”

Teyla arched an eyebrow and took a delicate bite of oatmeal. “A difficult battle awaits.”

Young grinned at his Athosian hash. “Does the B-team know they’re gonna get broadcast?”

“We’ll secure the agreement of all parties of course,” Woolsey said. “In my view, there’s no need to burden new players with the knowledge of just how popular these streams are. Might want to encourage a little practice here and there though, before their debut?”

Teyla fought a smile and dug her spoon into her bowl of porridge.

“Teyla!” Woolsey said, whispery and delighted. “There’s no need to be so coy! You’re among friends. Discreet friends, I might add.”

Young nodded his agreement.

“What is it?” Woolsey asked. “An Untethered Serpentis Underlord? A Mother Replicon?” 

The gold flecks in Teyla’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. But, “They may indeed wish to practice,” was all she said.

~~~

By 1000 hours, Young had familiarized himself with the security features of the Nautilus Suite, sent Vala to check on Jackson, dismissed Greer to get some rest, and set himself up in the infirmary with pen and paper next to Rush’s bed.

Sheppard was gone, called to a briefing on Wraith activity.

Rush was asleep, curled on his side in the jewel-toned morning light, completely oblivious to the way he had most of Young’s brain in a chokehold.

Pen in hand, Young sketched out some structure for himself and his grass-green team.

As he chunked out a rough schedule, he found himself weighing the need for security against the need for skill acquisition. Much as he’d love to put a two-man team on their Planetary Asset twenty-four seven, it was an emotional stance given the reduced LA threat on Atlantis. And it came with an opportunity cost.

As different allocation patterns emerged over the pages, an underlying principle turned clear.

Young needed SG-68 to flex to an elite performance level. They needed to gain skills without the benefit of the usual SGC structure of serial missions, regular training, and downtime bonding at O’Malley’s over beer and pool.

It was a big ask, but after a few decades in the field, Young had a sense for potential, and SG-68 was full of it. 

Greer was a quick study with a knack for Earth tech as well as a rifle. Young hadn’t seen enough of him in action to be sure, but he carried himself like a give-no-quarter fighter. James was tough to read, and that poker face came from somewhere—a rough past, a chip on her shoulder, a too-sensitive personality in a job with no space for it. Whatever it was, she had it locked down. Ginn’s time in the LA had made her tough as nails and left her with a naked earnestness that would hold her back until she learned to file it down.

All of them were the kind of smart you couldn’t buy, the kind of dedicated you couldn’t teach. Those two qualities were a pair of sleeved aces that would play in any hand. Young was sitting on the makings of a legendary team. All they needed was seasoning and time together.

And then there was Eli.

Young tapped his pen against SG-68’s blocked schedule, torn between writing the kid in and boxing him out.

Box him out, and he’d be throwing wrenches in Young’s plans.

Write him in, and he’d buck Young’s authority for the hell of it.

He stared unseeing at the page, his mind full of Jackson, weeping into the Lantean night. Wondered about who or what it was that he’d seen for a pair of heartbeats, perched on a silver parapet beneath a spread of stars.

“What are you thinking of?” Nick Rush asked.

Startled, Young looked up.

Rush regarded him solemnly, curled on his side. His expression was serious, his eyes alert.

Young couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Rush reached for his glasses. Slid them into place. The eyepieces clicked faintly against his cortical suppressors.

Who are you? Young wanted to ask. Who could you be, if we let you?

Before the Au Coeur op, before he saw Nick Rush descend a fire escape with the setting New York sun in his hair, it never would’ve occurred to Young that his neighbor had the kind of strength one could lean into. And Young had leaned into it, all during that mythic, mind-blowing dinner. But as he cast back, he realized it had always been there. It’d been there in the way the guy hadn’t caved during the LA foothold, but instead had driven him and Vala to Casper, Wyoming. It’d been there earlier still, maybe even from that first day, when the man had woken up in an unfamiliar apartment and made dinner for a USAF colonel on a fast track to a desk job.

“Hotshot,” Young rasped, “would it make any kind of sense to you if I—” he lost steam, understanding how little he knew, thinking of David with ash in his hair, thinking of Jackson weeping under the weight of all he couldn’t say.

Rush sat up, his expression full of concern, full of something that looked like sympathy, that looked like understanding, and—

God.

Maybe he did understand. Maybe he knew more than Young did.

“You want to help me train up a handful of kids?” Young asked. “I think we’re gonna need ‘em, before the world ends.”

Rush swung his feet over the edge of the gurney and ran an elegant pianist hand through his elegant pianist hair. “According to the internet, this was my literal day job as recently as March of this year.”

“Thought you did math all day,” Young said.

“D’you have any idea how academia works?” Rush replied. “I had students. I mean, presumably. I can barely restrain my pedagogical instincts where Eli is concerned. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Young smiled at him, knowing too much of what he was feeling was on his face when Rush’s expression softened. “Good,” Young said, trying not to cut himself on the sharp edges of his own hope. “Let’s plan a briefing.”