The buzzing sound of the harsh fluorescent lights give him a headache, his skull pounds in time with his heartbeat, slow and steady and normal.

Nate isn't entirely sure what normal is anymore. Not after everything that has happened.

A glass of water sits next to him, within his reach, but he doesn't move for it. He can't bring himself to, despite how much his throat aches, the dry tackiness of his tongue as he runs it across the back of his teeth.

From his seat, he can see scientists, clad in identical uniforms, a faceless, anonymous mass; watching, waiting beyond the glass.

This isn't his fault, it couldn't have been, couldn't be.

More scientists stand before him and Nate finds he can't see their faces through the hazmat suits they wear, the tinted face shields reflecting the bright lights and hiding the people behind them.

They needed protection— from what? From him?

"What did you eat?" one of them asks, though he doesn't know which of them had spoken. Their voice is muffled and crackling through the transmitter on the suit, barely human. "You had rations for two weeks— you were inside for nearly four months."

Nate can't bring himself to look at them any longer because no matter what he does, he can't come up with an answer for the question.

His eye hurts, the lower lid twitching slightly. Spasming.

"I don't remember eating."

The walls and ceiling are different colours.

Perhaps it was meant to be comforting. It makes the room lack the scientific sterility he would have expected. But all Nate can think of is how it makes the room look wrong. Beige, off white— just a few shades of difference, barely perceptible. It was enough that it makes something deep in Nate's skin ache, though he didn't move to claw at it. If he started, he isn't sure he'd be able to stop.

"How long did you think you were in there?"

"I don't know— days? A week, two? Maybe a little more. I don't know."

The hazmat suit shows no compassion, no mercy as it continues the questions.

This is an interrogation, Nate thinks bitterly, and swallows nothing but air, his dry throat spasming slightly in protest. A droplet of condensation rolls down the glass, and he looks at it from the corner of his eye, seeing the warped reflection of his blue eye on the surface.

"What happened to James Trombley?"

The name brings back an ugly surge of memories, confusion and fear and desperation and anguish and hunger, sudden and bitter enough that Nate's throat clenches up, knuckles going white where they clutch at the soft fabric of his pants.
"I—" his voice faltered. What had happened? He remembers the sea, stormy and grey, the lighthouse, and something deep in his stomach twists. His eye itches, a dull burning throb deep within the socket. He still didn't itch at it.

"I don't know."

"What about the others? Hasser? Person?"

Nate stares at his lap, his bruised knuckles and the edge of the tattoo that now decorates the inside of his forearm, a serpent, twisted around itself, devouring.

Ouroboros. Life, Death, Rebirth.

"Dead," he breathes, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling for a moment, taking a slow inhale. "They're all dead, Patterson too. I don't know, I really don't." Nate swallows back something— not tears— and wishes his voice sounded less empty and robotic.

The scientists shift uneasily, though they never turn away from him. "Then what do you know?"

Nate stares silently, listening to the buzz of the fluorescent lights and his own heartbeat as he breathes in and out, slow and steady; and he remembers the writhing mass of shapes and colours that he couldn't describe.

He picks up his glass of water and takes a drink.

Five Months Earlier

"This is a cell— like all cells, it is born from an existing cell, and by extension, all cells were ultimately born from one cell— a single organism, alone on Earth, perhaps alone in the universe." Nate sat along the wide windows as the video played, silent along the screen at the front of the classroom. "Then, some time about four billion years ago, one became two, two became four— then eight, sixteen, thirty two."
He tapped his pencil along his thigh gently as he spoke, gaze flickering across the faces of his students.
"The rhythm of the dividing pair becomes the structure of every microbe, blade of grass, sea creature, land creature, and even humans. The structure of everything that lives— and everything that dies. As students of biology and medicine, the doctors and scientists of tomorrow, this is where you come in." It felt odd saying that when he was hardly older than some of his pupils, medical and graduate students barely half a decade younger than he was.

"The cell we're looking at comes from a tumour, taken from the cervix of a female patient in her early thirties." The cells in the video kept dividing, a grey-white mass that swelled and expanded as it continued to create more of itself, slowly taking over the screen. "Over the course of the next term, we will be closely examining cancer cells in vitro and discussing autophagic activity."

An hour later and Nate was heading down the steps of the Life Sciences building towards the parking lot, when one of his doctorate students caught up with him.
"Dr. Fick?" she asked, as he slowed down his pace to allow her to catch up.
Nate smiled a little to himself; the young woman was smart, smarter than some of his colleagues he'd even venture to say. "Yes Katie? How can I help you?"
"I finished that John Sulston paper last night, the one you recommended."
Nate paused, adjusting his messenger bag on his shoulder where it was starting to dig in. "The one about Nematodes? That wasn't required reading Miss Grier, I was just using him as an example due to his work in forwarding our understanding of the human genome and the life cycle of cells."
The girl shrugged before forging onwards. "It was enlightening," she offered, in an offhand way that somehow sounded like an excuse. "His work at the Sanger Center was instrumental in the development of genetic research, especially in regards to Cancer, Aging, and Somatic Mutation." Nate's smile felt like it was frozen onto his face. "I thought perhaps we could get coffee and discuss it sometime? I know your research is related, and I thought it would be good to talk to some people so I could start to sort out my doctoral dissertation ideas."

Her hand brushed his wrist and Nate tensed up, realising all at once how close she had stepped into his personal space. Perhaps she'd seen the look that crossed his face, because she drew back, pulling her hand away.

"I'm so sorry Dr. Fick-- I don't know what got into me," she said quickly, face going bright pink. "I just--"

He offered her a smile he hoped would be comforting, though he was pretty sure it came across as forced and almost pained. "You have nothing to worry about. Innocent mistake."

Nate checked his watch, wincing a little bit at the number there, how deep it set the pit in his stomach. "I— I need to go home, but you know my office hours if you need to talk to me tomorrow, or you can e-mail me if that's better for you."

"Oh—" she looked a little crestfallen, before she perked back up. "Of course! I'll see you later then, Professor."

As he made his way down the path, another voice broke into his thoughts, and he couldn't help but flinch.

"Nate--"

How was it that Captain Nate Fick had looked death in the face all those years ago in Iraq, in Afghanistan, but now a voice could reduce him to a deer in headlights? It felt wrong, like he was pretending to be a different person, an imposter in Nate's body.

Who are you?

Despite that, he turned to face the new figure.
"Dr. Farias," he offered amiably, though he didn't slow down. "What can I do for you?" She kept pace with him despite the disparity in their heights, one hand brushing over his arm, before it circled his wrist, loose and pulling ever so slightly, like she was trying to slow him down.

"I've been looking for you at department meetings and after your classes, but you never seem to be around." She sounded almost disappointed, and the guilt that washed over Nate was sickening, made his head spin as he thought about her, thought about Brad and everything else. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me."

He was.

"I've been catching up on some writing," he offered, a pitiful excuse, and they both knew it.
Her hand tightened, a vice grip.

"All work and no play, it's not healthy, Nate." He stopped walking, wanted to scream and pull at his hair at the way she phrased things, dancing around topics and the truth.

What are you trying to say? Just say it, don't keep beating around the bush.

But he didn't do any of those things, just smiled politely at the other professor.

"I wanted to ask. Do you have plans for this Saturday?" The guilt felt like a wave, pushing him down deeper and deeper. "Andrew and I were going to have a few people over, maybe a barbeque or some sort of party while the weather holds."

Nate took a deep breath and hoped she didn't notice how his body language had gone tense. "Actually, I'm really sorry Angela. I do have plans."

"I think it could be a lot of fun," she offered, voice low and soft as silk.

"I wish I could but I'm going to paint the bedroom."

"It's been over a year, Nate."

Over a year since Brad had gone on that mission, since Brad left and everything had fallen apart, a year since he'd last seen his husband, last heard from him, long enough that the little ember of hope had long since smouldered out.

"You're allowed to come to a barbecue. It is not a betrayal or an insult to his memory."

And what about your husband then? What about Andrew? Your kids? Is this a betrayal to them?
Angela's grip tightened his arm, choking, and Nate's hand tightened on the travel mug in his hands, full of lukewarm coffee with not enough sugar, not enough cream.

"I'm gonna paint the bedroom," he repeated, and that was the end of it.

When Saturday rolled around, Nate sat on the couch and clutched the photo albums from their wedding, from their honeymoon, from everything they'd ever had photos of, Brad's eyes fixed on the camera in the grainy images from Iraq.

His hands were shaking and it took all of his self control to not think about everything he still missed, he still needed and wanted and didn't have anymore; Brad's hands inching up the inside of his ribs in the morning, tickling— the way he laughed, chest heaving, corners of his eyes crinkling up when he smiled, real and warm and all Nate's.

The way they were made for each other, ever since the first time they met all those years ago, when Nate was hardly twenty-two and in the middle of Afghanistan, as they made their way across Iraq in tin-plated Humvees, and the only thing they'd had faith in was each other, how well they fit together, like puzzle pieces; mouths and bodies and hands and lives, like they'd always been together.

He didn't think about those things and certainly didn't think about the ring that sat heavy on the bedside table that he couldn't bear to wear anymore.

And he certainly didn't cry.

So instead, he spread a plastic sheet over the bed they used to share, rolled his sleeves up, and started painting.

At some point it went from the late morning to the middle of the afternoon, sunshine pouring in through the filmy curtains golden and warm, streams of dust motes moving through them lazily.

Slowly, the walls changed from dark grey-green to a pale blue, like the sky in the morning before the sun had risen fully, like the seas between them, pushing and pulling them apart.

In the background, one of Brad's old Air Supply records played softly, painfully familiar.

Nate heard something creak loudly somewhere in the house and he stopped the music, turning towards the door, open to the hallway, the staircase.

"Hello?" his voice rang out in the empty silence, until someone stepped through the doorway, and the paint roller fell from Nate's hands, forgotten, even as paint splattered across his bare feet and the wooden floor.
"Oh my god," he breathed, breath catching in his throat as he stepped forward. "Oh my god."

Then he was in Brad's arms, wrapped around him, sobbing into the crook of Brad's neck like he was a child, clinging to the man he never thought he'd see again.

Brad's hands were warm, gentle and hesitant as they settled on his waist, just above the hip bones that jutted out more than they had last year, and Nate just cried and hoped this wasn't a dream.

"I thought you were gone," he whispered, voice cracking as he clinged to the taller man, pushed up onto his tiptoes to loop his arms over Brad's shoulders, around his neck. He drew back a moment, cupping the face he still saw in his dreams, saw in his waking nightmare, and kissed him, gentle and desperate and sticky with tears. "I thought you were gone."

Brad stayed silent, but kissed him back, hesitant and soft in a way that made Nate's heart ache.
"Brad." His voice broke again and a fresh wave of tears rolled out, ugly and hot and Brad just let him cry, holding Nate to his chest as he breathed him in.

The cup of water sat untouched between them, Brad's outstretched fingertips just shy of the glass, hand spread open across the table's surface as though he didn't understand what to do with himself.

He wouldn't meet Nate's eyes.

Somewhere in the background, the dishwasher was running, soft and quiet in the early evening silence, just over the hum of the fridge.

"Nobody knew anything about your unit," Nate said softly, hesitantly, reaching out to touch Brad's hand. The blond stopped bouncing his knee. "I contacted everyone I could— everyone else knew just as little as I did." Brad was silent, still like a statue, still staring at the whorls in the wooden surface of the table— their table. Nate took a deep breath, looking up as he drew back into his own space, bracing his weight against the countertop and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Was it covert?"

"Mmh... maybe." Brad's voice was hoarse, the kitchen lights throwing deep shadows across his thin face.

He almost laughed at that, astounded and furious and confused all at once. "What's that supposed to mean, Brad? 'Maybe'?"

Brad stopped, looked up at him for the first time and Nate couldn't help but notice his eyes were wrong. Like they were someone else's, the wrong shade of blue-grey, more grey than blue and more clear than grey. "Okay, yeah. It was covert, yeah. I think so."

"Pakistan again?" Nate's voice broke a little. What was he hiding? They'd promised no more secrets between them, and yet here they were, Brad and Nate. "Syria?"

He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head ever so slightly.

"I— I don't know where it was, or what it was—"

"How is that possible?" Nate's voice came out bitter, same as the laugh that barked out of his chest, throwing his hands in the air. "Was— was it warm? Did it snow? Did the people there speak Portuguese, or Swahili, or Pashto?" He let his hands fall, rubbing at his temples and they just looked at each other for a heartbeat.
"How long have you been back?" Accusing, demanding an answer for this, for everything, for putting him through this.

"I... don't know."

"How— how can you not know?" Nate's voice broke, and Brad turned away, staring at the table again. "How'd you get back? What base did you fly into? Brad, please. Tell me something." Anything.

Brad just shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't know."

"What about the rest of your unit? Did they come back with you?" The silence between them dragged on, endless and aching and too much.

The cup dripped onto the tablecloth.

"You have to be able to tell me something," he pleaded. "You vanished off the face of the Earth for fifteen months. I thought you were dead, Brad. I deserve an explanation— I deserve a better explanation than 'I don't know'."

Brad hunched his shoulders in, defensive. "Does it matter?" his voice had lost its odd dream-like quality, went cold as his Iceman moniker. Nate stared at him, taken aback. "I'm here now, aren't I?" And those eyes, those eyes that weren't his turned slowly up, burning into Nate's very core.

He pulled out the chair opposite from Brad and sat down, feeling the wood dig into his spine. Their hands met over the glass as Nate traced gentle fingers over the skin of Brad's knuckles, old scars and bones just beneath delicate flesh. "How did you get home?"

"I was outside." Brad turned his head towards the stairwell, imposing in the shadows and half-light.

"Outside the house?"

"No," he murmured, shaking his head. "No, I was outside the room—" Nate drew his mouth into a frown, eyebrows furrowing together, "—the room with the bed. The door was open."
"And I saw you. I recognised you. Your face."

Nate drew his hands away slowly, trying to connect the dots here, and Brad's fingers closed around the glass of water, lifting it to his mouth. In the silence it felt nearly deafening, the sound of him swallowing, the glass coming back down to meet the table with a soft noise, muffled by the runner.

"Can we go to bed?" Brad wiped away the droplet of water rolling down his chin with his sleeve, his voice somehow a pale monotone and pleading at once. Nate just nodded, picking up the glass and setting it in the sink.

"Yeah, we can." Nate let Brad lead, just followed him, like he would have to the ends of the earth, like he would have done if he'd stayed in the Corps even though he was an officer then.

To call what they did lovemaking was an overstatement. It wasn't even fucking, Nate wouldn't have called it that. It was some sort of repetitive, trancelike sex, and it was only bearable in the darkness, where Nate didn't have to see the incorrect blueness of his eyes.

They went to bed afterwards, and slept in hopeless silence in that room, the distance between them seemed farther than ever beneath the sheets.

Some part of Nate knew the next morning, with some certainty, that their time together was borrowed, that it was the last few grains caught in an hourglass, yet to slip down the narrow waist. Outside, the rain poured down, lightning crackling across the sky with not-so-distant booms of thunder. It was to this sound they conducted their painfully polite breakfast of eggs and toast, watching the unusual weather through the sliding glass doors to the backyard.

"I like the bird feeder," Brad offered as Nate sipped at his coffee. For a while, it seemed nearly normal. "It looks good."

Nate set his mug down and shrugged. "I suppose it does."

A few minutes passed, and Nate paused again, hesitating to ask. Partially because he didn't know if he could handle the non-answers and half-truths.

"Was coming back a long journey? Was it tough?" Nate fiddled with the strings of his sweatshirt, watching Brad from under his eyelashes.

"No," he said back, "effortless." Brad flashed an imitation of his old smile, infuriatingly, and Nate almost smiled back until he noticed a dimple that hadn't existed before.

"How long did it take?"

"No time at all." His expression was impossible, but there was something deeper behind the monotony of it all-- something mournful, something left inside that wanted to communicate but couldn't. In all the years he'd known Brad, he'd never been truly mournful or melancholy, just some sort of reserved sadness. The change frightened Nate a little bit.

"How was the mission?" He asked, tentative, not sure how much longer he could circle, how much longer he could avoid asking the questions that burned in his chest.

Brad cocked his head to one side, like he was thinking, but half-heartedly. "Oh, you know." He took a deep drink from the glass of orange juice in front of him-- like he wanted to savour it, like nothing existed in the house besides his enjoyment. "You know. Same as always. Nothing really new." It was so nonchalant, as though Nate were a colleague, someone he'd run into at a bar in his hometown and was making small talk with, not his lover, his husband for the better part of 6 years.

Nate looked out the glass of the door, watched the puddles pooling in the garden and took another drink of his cooling coffee. Looking at him felt wrong. Brad wasn't the Brad he'd known and loved, but some stranger, sitting there at their kitchen table and going through the motions of being Brad Colbert.

"I'm going to go take a shower." It wasn't an invitation and he didn't intend it to be one, like once he stepped out of the water this nightmare would be over. It'd been easier to miss Brad and think he was dead, he'd found, if this is what had come home to him.

Brad just nodded a little and continued watching the rain fall.

That evening Nate found him standing in the garage in his socks, staring at his bike.

"It's late," he murmured, touching the base of Brad's spine, above the colourful garishness of the tattoo. Had it always looked like that? "It's cold out here."

He had some puzzled, almost forlorn expression on his face, as if he could remember that the bike was important, but not quite why. Brad didn't acknowledge Nate's presence in a way, just staring at the motorcycle with a growing intensity in his emptiness.

Somehow it felt like he was trying to recall some ancient memory, something important. Like he could have told Nate something important then, there, if only he could have remembered what it was. Instead, they stood there, and Nate could feel the heat and weight of Brad's presence beside him, the sound of his breathing.

Despite the closeness, somehow it felt like he was a million miles away.

"C'mon." Nate steered Brad back into the house. The directionless anonymity of his silence, his distress, scared him. Brad didn't protest, didn't try to look back over his shoulder. Perhaps if he had, it would have been different. If he'd turned, if he'd hesitated, even for a moment, maybe things would have been different.

In the morning, they came to get him, parked along the street in unmarked black SUVs. There was no shouting, no roughness. Instead, they approached Brad with an almost reverence, not-quite fear, the kind of hesitant gentleness Nate remembered EOD techs in Iraq had when they handled unexploded ordnance.

He went without protest, and Nate let them take this stranger from his house, standing on the porch and watched them drive away in the blueness of the morning.

He could have stopped them, but he didn't want to. The last few hours of their stilted coexistence had been filled with some sort of deepening dread, a rising panic like the tide sweeping in across mud flats. Every minute he'd been more and more convinced that whatever had happened on his last deployment had turned him into someone else, an empty shell just going through the motions of life.

He'd come home a stranger, someone that Nate didn't know, had never known.

What else was he supposed to have done?