LEO
=== ==== ==== ====
07/06/2002
Phoenix, Arizona
Redhawk Base
==== ==== ==== ====

Having Nova Shields sob into my chest wasn't on my mental itinerary when I knocked on her door.

I'd expected a snarky comeback, maybe another slap, possibly even a solid "fuck off" followed by the door slammed in my face. But this? Her body trembling against mine, face buried in my shirt, fists clutching the fabric like it was the only solid thing left in her world?

Yeah. I wasn't ready for that.

But I don't pull away.

I let her stay there, pressed close, her shoulders shaking as she cries silently into me. I hold her. Not tightly, just enough to let her know I'm here, not moving. 

I stay quiet. There's nothing I can say that won't sound hollow. "It'll be okay" doesn't mean shit in this world. Not when you're built out of wreckage like we are.

Her story plays on repeat in my head. How her mom vanished without a trace, how her dad turned into a paranoid war vet and trained her like she was born for combat. How the one person who should've protected her, her own brother, left. I'd always known she was fire. Now I see the ashes she was born from.

When the sobs finally ease, she pulls away. Just like that, it's over. She's switched back. Straightens her posture, wipes her eyes, tugs her shorts down a little like she can erase everything that just happened.

"Sorry about that," she mutters, not looking at me. "Didn't mean to start crying."

I want to tell her not to be sorry. That anyone would've broken under all that. But instead, I just shrug, keeping my voice low.

"It's alright. I'm... sorry you had to go through that. You are allowed to cry in front of me, you know? Despite everything."

She nods, tight-lipped, focused on her bandage like it's the most interesting thing in the room. The silence hangs between us, thick and unspoken, and I know she's already regretting letting me see her like this.

I hesitate. "Your brother never came back, huh?"

She shakes her head. "I'm glad he didn't."

That lands heavy. Her tone is flat, but the words slice. She means it. Whatever he did, she means it.

I want to ask more, but I don't. Her expression makes it clear she's said enough. I push up off the bed slowly, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. She watches me the whole time. Quiet, cautious, that steel guard back in place like nothing ever cracked.

"I'll leave you alone for a while," I say, hand on her door handle.

She doesn't respond. Just watches. I nod once, open the door, and step out, closing it behind me.

—
28/06/2002
—

I actually do leave her alone for a while, well, apart from the usual arguments. Does three weeks count as "a while"? I'm not sure anymore.

It's like that entire night never happened. Like the way she collapsed against me, tears soaking into my shirt, didn't crack something wide open between us. Now, we're back to the routine. Cold glances. Sharpened words. The occasional eye-roll when the other says something halfway stupid.

She's walking fine now, no more limp in her step. Which means I'm back to being glued to her side during drills and debriefs. North's bright idea of "reconditioning co-captain synergy."

Today's no different.

"I told you that's not the right tactic! If you have to push forward in that scenario, you wouldn't do it from the damn front!" Nova's voice cuts through the room like a whip, her finger jabbing toward me with military precision.

Her green eyes are burning, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back in a tight braid that somehow still looks like a battle flag. Every inch of her screams defiance.

North's got us running a hostage extraction scenario, something about a five-story embassy, dual entries, a diplomatic VIP. The whole squad is supposed to work together, build strategy, learn to trust one another.

Instead, we're reenacting thermonuclear war. Cold, hot, loud.

"If you don't go through the front," I snap, matching her glare, "then your only option is to breach through the back windows. Those lead into side rooms we haven't cleared. You want to get cornered in a goddamn nursery?"

"Well, if you barrel through the front like some idiot cowboy, you're practically begging to get lit up! Why not just ring the fucking doorbell and yell surprise?!" Her hands slam down on the table, the noise echoing.

"Maybe I would if I thought it'd shut you up," I grit.

"Well, if you—"

"Enough!" North bellows, voice like a gunshot.

Silence falls. Real silence. The kind where you can hear your own blood pumping.

North looks like he's about to burst a vessel, one hand massaging his temple as his other points at both of us like we're two dogs caught ripping up the same shoe.

"I've fucking had it up to here with the pair of you! Twenty-five and twenty-seven years of age, acting like teenagers! You're meant to be special-ops, fucking Captains at that! How can't the pair of you put your damn differences aside for once?!"

Before he can really rip into us, a high-pitched beep cracks from the radio on his hip. He yanks it up with a muttered curse and listens, his expression flattening as he steps toward the hallway.

"Team-building is over, thank fuck. You two are going to put me in an early grave, I swear to God."

He points his aging, calloused finger at us one last time before stomping out.

The silence that follows is awkward as hell. Tara glances toward Nova and raises her eyebrows, but Nova just shrugs it off like it was nothing. She wanders over to Tara, while I lean against the desk and exhale hard.

Tyrese steps up beside me, his arms folded with his usual good-natured grin.

"You looking forward to the phone calls later?" he asks casually.

The calls home. Once a month. We each get ten minutes. A burner phone passed around the group like a relic, destroyed immediately afterward. One chance to hear a familiar voice, to remember the world beyond this one.

"Suppose so, yeah. It's actually been eleven years today since Jaques died. I guess it's convenient that I get to speak with my mom," I say, running a hand over my face, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot older than I am.

Tyrese's expression dims, the grin fading. "Yeah, she probably needs to speak with you today more than ever."

Jaques Hendrix. My little brother. Twelve years old. Shot dead in a shopping mall back in '91. A random massacre. Wrong place, wrong time.

And the guilt, the guilt never left. Dropped his little hand in the chaos when I was trying to drag us to safety and the crowd separated us. Saw his little hand covered in blood when I went back to find him. The cops had to drag me out because I was losing my fucking mind. 

He'd hid under a bench. A fucking bench made out of metal poles, and the bastard had shot him right through it. Eight times. 

It's the reason I ended up in this life. The reason I never look back. The reason I can't walk into a public place without mapping the exits in under five seconds.

Everyone in this place has a story. Mine just happens to start with a dead little brother and a family who never moved past it.

--

I'm next in line, waiting for Jed to finish talking to his sister. We're all queued up outside the soundproof comms room like we're back in goddamn elementary school.

 Alphabetical order, fifteen-minute slots. Nova's right behind me, because of course she is. We're always in each other's orbit, whether we like it or not.

We're standing back-to-back, not saying a word, like the air between us is some kind of neutral zone. The silence sits heavy. Until, surprisingly, she breaks it.

"Who are you calling?" she asks quietly, her voice subdued, her back still turned.

I glance over my shoulder at her. She's fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, eyes on the floor. There's no venom in her tone for once.

"My mom," I say. "You?"

"Don't really have a choice apart from my dad," she murmurs, exhaling slow, pinching the back of her neck like it aches.

Something about the gesture makes me feel like shit. I don't know why. Maybe because I know a little too well what it's like to not have options.

Jed finally exits the room, looking way too smug for someone who probably just talked about football stats and backyard BBQs. He pats me on the shoulder like he's passing on some sort of torch. 

I walk past him into the room, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

The burner phone is there, waiting on the desk like it's judging me. I take a breath. Then I sit. Pull out the sticky note I scrawled with half-truths, lies, really. Fake time zones. Fake drills. Fake base name. I check the time. 1:40 p.m.

I dial.

The line clicks. Rings. Then: "Hello?"

Thank fuck.

"Hi Mom. It's me."

A beat of silence, and then her voice spills through the speaker, soft and warm. "Sweetheart? Oh, son, I feel like I haven't heard your voice in forever. How is military camp?"

Camp. That's the lie. Queensland. Basic drills. Nothing about the kind of blood we wash off our hands.

"It's good, Mom. Seven-forty a.m. here. Up early for training," I say with a confidence that doesn't feel earned.

"Ah, I see. I'm glad you're doing okay, hon. I hope they haven't been working you too hard!"

I smile faintly, my hand curling into a fist on the desk. "Oh, you have no idea, Mom."

She laughs lightly, and the sound wraps around my chest like a goddamn memory. Then I hesitate.

"How are you and Dad doing today? I know it's eleven years. I remembered."

The pause on the other end stretches. I hear her exhale. "We're managing, sweetheart. We visited his grave this morning. Said a few prayers."

Of course they did. They're devout. My mother never misses a date. Never stops believing he's somewhere listening. "I'm sure he heard you."

"There was a beautiful sunrise this morning," she adds quietly. "I think it was his way of saying hi."

I swallow against the pressure building in my throat. "Yeah. I bet he's kicking a soccer ball around up there."

She laughs again, but it's wetter this time. "Hopefully not causing too much trouble for our Lord."

"It's Jaques, Mom. He probably bribed Saint Peter with bubble gum to let him sneak out the pearly gates."

She giggles, and for a second it feels like we're home. Like he's just upstairs, alive.

Then it twists. "I wish I could've been there with you," I admit, voice quiet. "Was James there at least?"

"Yes, honey. James and Pauline both. And, oh, I've been dying to tell you this - Pauline's pregnant. You're going to be an uncle!"

I blink. My heart gives a weird kind of lurch. "Seriously? That's amazing. Wow."

"We're thrilled," she says, beaming through the phone. "I'm secretly hoping it's a girl. Had my share of boys already."

I grin despite myself. "She'll be lucky to have you for a grandma."

A moment passes. Then she lowers her voice. "Do you still want to be a dad someday, Leo?"

I stare at the phone like it might give me the answer. Then I nod, even though she can't see me.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just - I have to get through all this first."

"You will, honey. I know it."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll need a hell of a woman, though."

She chuckles. "Anyone catch your eye lately?"

I hesitate. Nova's face flashes across my mind for reasons I don't like. Caught my eye from being such a pain in my ass, most likely. 

"Nah. Just me and the job right now."

She hums knowingly. "Well, don't wait forever. You'd be a good dad."

Even though you let Jacques die? 

I shove that thought right to the back of my head and bury it where it belongs, then glance at the clock. 1:57 p.m.

Fuck.

"Hey, mom. I've gotta go. Warm-ups starting."

"Do you think you can wait a minute? Your dad's just out for groceries-"

Fuck, I feel like a prick. "I can't. I'm sorry. Please give him my love. Tell James too. And Pauline."

I don't miss the twinge of sadness in her tone. "Of course. Stay safe. I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too, Mom." I hang up.

The burner feels heavier in my hand than it should. I set it down gently. My chest is tight.

I pace out of the room, wiping at the corner of my eye. Just in time to catch Nova's jade stare.

"You went a teeny-bit over the limit," she says, brushing her hair back, trying to act casual.

"Fuck off, Shields," I snap, the words harsher than I intend.

Her eyes narrow, caught off guard. "Polite as always," she mutters, then pauses. "Leo, have you been crying?"

"No."

I don't look at her. I shoulder past her, brushing against her without meaning to. I can feel her gaze follow me.

She knows something happened.

But she won't ask. And I won't tell.

And that's the deal with grief here, and the way it should stay. We all carry ghosts. We can just pretend not to see each other's.

Even if I want to see hers more than I care to admit.