You cannot change what you are, only what you do.

[metalicarus]

The room was too quiet. The only sound that accompanied his thoughts was the ticking of the clock on the wall and that was too loud. It reminded him that time would keep moving even if he sat here, nothing was going to change just because he didn't move and, most of all, time only ever moved onwards.

As much as he may want to, he couldn't wind back the clock and undo what had been done. He didn't regret his decision to fly into space and save his best friend, without him Joe would have drifted forever and none of them would have seen him again, at least now Francoise wouldn't have to cry anymore. But...maybe it would have been better if he hadn't been saved, if he'd just died like he'd been prepared to do. Of course, sitting there, alive, it was harder to find that kind of resolve again. But, in the end, what was the cost of his living?

He looked down at his hands and how his wrists ended in the crease of a panel, the first sign of a difference. His eyes followed up from his wrist to his shoulders and then back down his own chest, creases ran along the surface of his too-pale skin like a web. They were closed now, but he knew it only took a second, a thought, and nearly all of them could flair up, open, or even separate to allow him better maneuverability and speed.

He knew this was like Pyunma, the doctor had only been trying to save him, to make him stronger. But he wasn't like the eighth cyborg, he couldn't have plated armor to defend from hits; he needed to be fast and light and aerodynamic. What he now had in speed and evasiveness he had gained at the cost of the defense he didn't have much of to begin with. He'd always been light on defense and built more for the get in quick and hit hard tactic rather than the barrel through approach for Albert or G, but he felt fragile and he hated it. Logically, he knew he could still take a hit better than most people, but he would have to rely more on not being hit in comparison to what he'd had before.

It was frustrating beyond belief, he didn't want to feel like this...and he certainly didn't want to look like this. He understood now, what his partners had been through and how they felt about being mostly machine. And it sucked. But it was more than even that. He looked up and into the mirror across the room where someone unrecognizable stared back. Blue eyes, finer features, and blonde hair stood out like beacons and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Part of him thought that maybe, if he looked long enough and hard enough, he'd be able to see something that told him yes this was still Jet Link...but he hadn't found it yet.

Everyone always said it was what was inside that counted, not outside, but when you couldn't recognize anything of yourself, it was like you were in someone else's body, like one of those movies where it's some mistake and by the end of it everything would be back to normal. Except there wasn't an ending like that waiting for him, only blue eyes, blonde hair, and panels.

Comments

[copesetic]

Albert had already seen what the well-meaning Doctor had done to save Jet. He and Francoise had been the first to find their teammates after they'd descended back to Earth. Ivan had managed to stay awake long enough to teleport them out of certain death but as he and the others gathered the pieces - the literal pieces - of their fallen comrades, he'd already wondered then at what cost.

Joe had been mostly intact. Injured, certainly, how could he not have been in confronting Black Ghost and destroying that ridiculous thing? But Jet had apparently shielded him from the worst of the atmospheric damage and he could hear Francoise's relieved tears at the flutter of eyelids, the group's collective relief at any little sign of life out of 009.

Jet was harder to find.

While Joe had landed in a recognizable heap on the beach, Jet was scattered in pieces, cybernetic and organic parts alike. Albert found what was left alive first, mechanical lungs wheezing in the ocean breeze as the skin and muscle had been stripped away by the violence of his descent. They were still connected to a bit of spine, disappearing into what remained of one shoulder, neck, and face, the last having only small patches of flesh that remained, turning Jet's once handsome face into a death mask so grisly Albert nearly wretched.

He honestly doesn't remember collecting the rest of the pieces, or bringing them back to the ruins of the house so Gillmore could use the intact basement laboratory below. All he remembers from the rest of that day is a feeling of bring crushed. He'd already been barely hanging on, his outward demeanor silent and chilly after he'd basically executed Von Bogoot. At least there had been closure, even if the wound was still raw. But this. This Jet had done to himself. And he couldn't even be angry about it, not when it had been the only reason Joe had been able to come back to them. He could clearly see why Jet felt the need to go play hero. Francoise was dear to both of them. To the whole team, really, but the first four especially had a bond they shared and Jet in particular had always tried to protect 003's feelings. Chivalrous, in that dopey American way of his. And Joe, who'd grown into not only a trusted comrade in arms, but a close friend, closest of all with Jet. No, had Albert been in Jet's shoes, he likely would have done the same.

But that thought didn't help at all.

He wasn't angry. He couldn't be angry. The word was more betrayed, left behind. Yes Jet was close with the others but there's a petulant little voice in Albert's mind that hated that he'd been left, that Jet had just launched himself into the stratosphere and left them all helpless and useless. Left Albert helpless to watch as the person he loved most flew off to his death. He doesn't know if it had occurred to anyone else, but Albert knew Jet's limits. He knew the second Jet Link took off that he may never see him again.

When the few pieces they had found were laid out on Gillmore's slab, he almost wished that had been true. It was worse than with Pyunma. 008 had had gaping holes to fill, its true, but most of Jet was literally gone, burned up in the atmosphere and becoming just so much stardust. With the amount of sheer recreation Gillmore would have to do, would Jet even really be Jet anymore?

He'd voiced his concern glibly, much to Gillmore and Francoise's horror, and been chased from the operating room. How could he say such things when they all knew how he felt about the man they were trying to save. Albert had to wonder how he could not say it. It was his first thought when he'd woken up and found himself an arsenal instead of a man, and he'd at least had his same face. Even Pyunma had kept his own face. How much worse would it be for Jet when he woke up and didn't recognize himself? Gillmore was no plastic surgeon. Jet would never look the same. It seems a petty thing but when even your heart's been replaced by metal and wires, your own face might be all you have left.

That had been several weeks ago. Joe had woken up, finally, several days prior and while he was still on the mend, he could be heard in quiet conversation with Francoise at times. Chang was off tending to his restaurant, GB having gone with him to henpeck and pick off plates and just generally stay in his partner's company (it had never been stated but everyone knew). Albert, G, and Pyunma had slowly rebuilt the house on the ruins of the old one, G acting as foreman and forklift alike. He and Pyunma talked at length, about what they should do, about Pyunma being tired of fighting and wanting to do something more peaceful with his life.

Albert had just been silent.

He was still silent now, sitting in the living room of the rebuilt house alone. Even when Gillmore had come up to tell him gently that Jet had finally woken up he responded with a monosyllabic grunt of acknowledgement and simply tensed, remaining seated and staring glassy-eyed out the window for another several minutes until Gillmore cleared his throat.

Hands in pockets, Albert made the slow trek to the bedroom. He knew he wouldn't be surprised by Jet's appearance at least, having seen Gillmore's handiwork when he'd initially finished - despite his misgivings, Albert had still played nurse and assistant when necessary - but what should he say? Go the earnest route like he'd done with Pyunma and let him know someone understands? It's not Jet's style really to respond to such open emotion. Act like nothing's wrong? Tell him he looks better that way, without that giant shnoz of his getting in the way? It would be a lie Albert's not sure he can tell. True he's more classically handsome, but it's not better. It would never be better. He'd be best off just taking cues from Jet's mood.

Albert stares at the door in front of him, takes a small breath, and knocks.

[metalicarus]

It felt like he'd been looking in that mirror for hours by the time the knock broke through his thoughts. His first instinct was to tell whoever it was to go away, he didn't really feel like seeing anyone right now. Not because he didn't care about his family, but because he knew it was more than likely that whoever it was would end up staring.

It was normal to stare at something new, especially when it was in place of what you'd expect to find. They'd all got a good eyeful of Pyunma's redesign and Jet himself had been guilty of his eyes lingering a little too long the first few times he'd seen Albert without his shirt. Except for the creases, he looked mostly normal, but it was still different. He just didn't want to deal with that.

"Yeah...come in." was what decided to finally come out of his mouth, however, and he braced himself for whoever it would be. Out of everyone, he really didn't want it to be Frannie or Joe. Francoise was well-meaning and he loved her, but she had this way of being sympathetic to a point where it almost felt like pity and he definitely didn't need that. As for Joe...it wasn't like Jet didn't want to see him, it was more that he wasn't ready to see him yet. The doctor had told him that his friend had been fine and, when asked, had told him that Joe was whole and himself, for the most part. He'd be lying if he said there wasn't some part of him that was bitter about that.

Of course, it could be Albert...and he didn't know how he felt about that. Some vulnerable part of him definitely wanted it to be the German because surely Albert's feelings wouldn't change simply because Jet looked different, right? Jet would be able to do what he almost never did and just cling to his lover and find solace in those metal arms. But there was a more insecure and doubtful side that arose right on the heels of that hope that set to crushing it. What if Jet wasn't really Jet anymore? He couldn't blame Albert for being distant or perhaps even not wanting anything more to do with him than he would want from GB or Chang. It was petty and probably childish, but staring at himself in the mirror, wondering if he even wanted anything to do with himself, it wasn't a fear he could shake.

[copesetic]

When Albert walked into the room, he was wearing a smile. Not a broad forced smile or anything like that, but his usual half smirk. Normalcy, he'd decided in the split second between Jet's invitation and his actual stepping into the room, was the way to start. He'll see how things go from there.

"Finally awake, huh? It's been awhile." He keeps his words purposely innocuous and his tone even, letting them stay at face value and make absolutely no value judgements one way or the other about any feelings that may or may not be roiling like a storm inside. Somehow, even knowing Jet's appearance had changed, he was still expecting the same bright red hair and warm brown eyes. The Aryan face that looks at him when he speaks is one he can't read. He'll have to learn all of Jet's expressions again, but he knew that going in. Still, knowing that and being directly confronted with it are two different things and its still a small battle to keep any of it from showing on his face. Thankfully, it's a battle he wins, though the smirk drops into his typical scowl when scolding Jet for his impulsiveness.

"You're an idiot for just flying off like that, you know that right?" Everything's normal. Nothing's changed. He'll still call the American on his stupid moves.

[metalicarus]

He wasn't entirely certain which he wanted more: that Albert didn't make this a big deal, like how he was currently acting, or that they just address the elephant in the room and get it over with. His expression was neutral and he stayed sitting on the bed, although those blue eyes he still couldn't think of as his just yet, were trained on Albert. "I guess I was tired. Beauty sleep and all that."

He inwardly winced at how horribly ironic what he said was, he hadn't even been thinking about it, really. Still, it made him look away and the second comment kept his eyes stuck on the floor in front of him. "Yeah, I know. I couldn't just sit around and do nothing, he would have died if I had." Nevermind the fact he knew he had almost died. That much was obvious just based on how much had been replaced, much less the doctor's reaction when he had woken up.

"Sorry." Not for doing it, necessarily, but because he knew Albert and he knew he had probably worried.

[copesetic]

He almost wanted to punch Jet for the beauty sleep comment. It was such a weird reaction that his fingers dug a bit into his arm. He knew before he would have laughed at that. He should probably laugh at it now but if he tried to force that it would come out so fake even McDonald's wouldn't serve it. He settles for a sardonic smirk while his insides are aching, snapping at him to just go over and touch him, hug him, do something other than stand here like a statue and mechanically go through the motions.

"Nah, I get why." He does, logically he does, but he still wants to scream. He wants it to hit home just how much it hurt to be left behind, without even a goodbye or apology, without even a look back to acknowledge the gravity of the situation.

But that's Jet for you. He defies gravity.

"Don't apologize." For all that Albert's been keeping his tone light in the- okay, it's only been about two minutes, but that's a long time in the emotional eons he's been experiencing, but for all he's been trying to be normal, those two words come out more gruffly than he intends. He doesn't want an apology, and he finds it's not because he's angry, it's not because he wants Jet to hurt like he did, but because he understands that Jet's already paying the price.

[metalicarus]

That was it! He was done with this place and with these people and he was leaving.

Jet burst into his room, not bothering to slam the door shut like he was half tempted to, and grabbed the suitcase he was now glad he'd replaced. He didn't think he'd be using it so soon, but that was life. He stationed it on the bed and just started grabbing anything and everything that was his. It was mostly clothes and a few objects that held some sentimental value, so he wasn't worried about running out of space. Besides, if anything didn't fit, there were certainly a few items he could leave behind. There was some he was purposefully not touching.

Random items here and there, some had escaped the fire with only minor damage and some of it was very recent, but they were all gifts. Gifts from Joe, from Frannie, from GB, things his family had given him. Things he was intentionally leaving behind.

In the back of his mind he knew he was being stupid and immature, he knew he wasn't actually angry about the things he said he was angry about, but he'd already blown up and said so many things he couldn't take back that there was no fixing this, not in his mind. There had been fights before, but none of them had been like this one and it had ended with him feeling like he was being looked down on by the entire team, by the very people he thought of as a family. Hadn't he proven himself to them yet? Why did they insist on treating him like some unreliable teenager?

He could have sworn he heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like the professor answer 'Because that's what you're doing right now, isn't it?' but he shoved it aside. He knew he was and it only pissed him off more. There were times, like now, when he did wish he was different. His pride was what was keeping him from sucking it up and apologizing and just living with the embarrassment of his blow up, and he wished he could punch it in the face, but he couldn't. For a long time, pride was all he had...and it was all he was going to have now.

Maybe he'd been stupid to think he could have a family. He hadn't had one growing up, the closet thing as his gang and they abandoned him. He'd really only been their ticket to survival, not a family member. Of course, now he wasn't a family member here either, he was just that obnoxious teen who ran his mouth so much that half of what he said was bullshit and the other half was trapped under so much frustration that it came out all wrong.

His movements slowed as he was cramming another shirt into the bag. He'd been pulling this shit for his entire life. True, it had subsided as he 'grew up' as part of the team, but it was the same tune as always. He hated it, but he couldn't change now, he'd just have to live with always saying the wrong thing.

Maybe it was better if he didn't have a family.

[copesetic]

"What do you think you're doing?" Albert stands in the doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the frame with his arms folded and ankles crossed. They'd been through this whole song and dance before and he knew this time to be like all the others. Jet just needed someone to stop him.

The problem was this time, Albert didn't have the patience to do it gently. Normally he'd give Jet some space for a time before coming to see him and tell him what an ingrate he's being, long enough for the permanent teen to see it himself first. That was key with Jet, not telling him things he needed to figure for himself. This is beyond idiotic though, even for that hot head. Arguing over who's the leader? How petty can you get! Albert's just a little too frayed to deal with this right now.

"You know you're not leaving, just put that stuff down."

[metalicarus]

Great. Just great. He should have known the man at his door was coming, he always did. This time was no different than any of the other times in the sense that he did not want to see or talk to 004. The difference this time was that he wasn't willing to listen to what the mediator had to say. Whether Albert knew it or not, Jet was aware of the pattern: Jet blew up and said something stupid, some amount of time passes and then Albert shows up to smooth things over, he talks to to the teen until Jet figures out what's wrong and how to fix it and then everything's fine as he goes about fixing it.

But this time he didn't need someone to hold his hand as he figure out what he was doing wrong and how to fix it because he already knew, the problem was that he just wasn't going to go that extra step and follow through with the solution.

The speed he'd lost as his thoughts went south returned with Albert's words, as if to prove him wrong. He was mostly done now and he waited until he was zipping the thing closed to respond. "Fuck off, Heinrich. I am leaving and you're not going to stop me."

[copesetic]

"No, I'm not. Why should I when you're pretty much just proving their point?" Not that anyone had actually said Jet was too immature, he just couldn't always think with a cool head. Yes he had one of the more versatile abilities of the team, but that didn't mean he should always go shooting off at the first sign of trouble, half the time without talking to anybody first.

Albert's tone reminds level despite the inward cringe at being called by his last name. It's one thing if Joe says it that way. For the Japanese, he's learned its a way of being polite, but in the romance languages? It adds a sense of distance, even animosity to the address. It hurts, as Albert suspects Jet was aiming to do. Albert has the sudden urge to shoot him but restrains himself. "No one can stop you when you're hellbent on doing something."

He stands up from the door frame, knocking his heel against it once as he runs his left hand through his too-short hair and the stuffs both hands in his pockets as he turns to go. "See you, 002."

It's a low blow, but he doesn't care at this point. If Jet's going to throw away everything they've built, then let him. He's used to being alone.

[metalicarus]

The bag over his shoulder, he's still, just listening to Albert walk away, his voice saying'002' reverberating in his head. Albert knew how Jet felt about their numbers. It was one thing in the field, another in casual conversation, and a completely different thing when it was just them. And it just solidified everything that had happened and everything that he'd been thinking and just how final it all felt.

He pressed his forearm against the wall and rested his forehead against it while his eyes clenched shut.It hurt, the whole damn thing hurt...but he really didn't feel like there was any fixing it. This was it and he could feel his heart breaking.

He pushed away from the wall, shoving the tightness in his chest down as he made his way to the backdoor, his one good shot at getting out of there without incident. And as his jets ignited and he took off into the sky, he didn't bother looking back, if he had he might have stopped himself.

27 yeas later...

[copesetic]

The first thing Albert did when he finally got Jet alone after the entire ordeal was punch him across the face.

It wasn't a held back blow either, nothing like the half-hearted tussles they'd gotten into back in the days of Black Ghost. This was a full on, no holds barred sucker punch that on anyone other than a cyborg would cause permanent damage.

As it is he's sorry it won't even bruise.

Before Jet can even stumble, Albert's still advancing, grabbing the taller man by the collar of his shirt and shoving him bodily against the wall, rattling the shelves bolted into it a little ways down the room. "Fick dich, scheisskopf!"

For all that Albert is terrifying already when actually angry, it's ten times worse when one can hear it in his native tongue. It seems he's hit Jet so hard it's rattled his internal translator for a moment. It rights itself quickly. "You swore to me, you miserable bastard! You made me a promise and still the next time I see you is after you've died?!" He pulls Jet an inch from the wall just to slam him into it again for emphasis, sending a candlestick clanging to the floor from one of the shelves. "What on God's green Earth is wrong with you?!"

Those normally cool pale eyes burn with a frozen fury as he stares down Jet, somehow looming even though he's holding the other cyborg high enough that his toes are just barely scraping the floor. He keeps the blond pinned there with one arm, shoving his weight behind it to press his entire forearm across Jet's collarbone and pointing his gun hand dangerously close to the man's face. "I should kill you over again myself, you stupid, selfish, son of a bitch!"

His voice cracks at the end of the epithet and his grip loosens a little, the five barrels wavering. "You idiot-!"

Albert's forearm loses the pressure he'd been putting against Jet's chest as his shoulder's sag, his expression draining as the fight goes out of him. "You--"

He lets the taller man's toes touch the floor again, hands wrapping themselves painfully tight on Jet's biceps, this time not through a desire to hurt but to keep himself upright as Albert bows his head, finding it impossible to keep from sounding utterly desolate. "--again, I thought--..."

He can't finish the thought around the lump in his throat. All that makes it out is a pained, nearly silent wail. A grieving sound.

[metalicarus]

For a moment he thought he'd gotten the literal sense knocked out of him before he realized it was his internal translator on the fritz for a moment. Then it fixed itself and part of him wished it hadn't. He remained silent while Albert threatened and cursed him and it would be a lie to say the thought that the German might make good on using that gun hand hadn't run through his head. Still, he didn't resist, he knew what he had done, all of it, and if he didn't trust Albert with his life at this point he didn't know when he would.

He listened to every word coming from the other man's mouth and winced partly for the rough treatment and partly for the words being thrown his way. It had been a long time and he'd never seen Albert this mad before, but he could still hear the pain under all of the venom. His chest got tight when he heard Albert's voice break and he started to loose it. Between angry and breaking down, Jet wouldn't have put his money on breaking down...and he knew it was his fault.

The hands on his arms were painfully restraining, but he did his best to move his hands so he could take hold of Albert's arms in return. "Albert..." He didn't bother to hide the pain in his voice, after all he'd done to mess this up, he had to fix it now. He didn't know if he'd be allowed to, but he tried to escape that tight hold so he could wrap his arms under Albert's own in a desire to hold and support him. "I'm...I'm sorry. I am an idiot and I'm so, so, sorry."

[copesetic]

The apologies may as well have fallen on deaf ears for all the reaction that Albert gives to them, nor does he give Jet the immediate chance to embrace him either. The German seems to crumble in on himself, knees hitting the floor hard and without resistance, one hand reflexively dropping to the floor as well, though his right simply slides down Jet's arm, resting heavily on his foream only for the grace of Jet's own grip as Albert's has gone slack.

He can't do this again. He can't pick up the pieces again and simply fit them back together. His mind flashes through the spanning breadth of their interaction, from waking up under the control of Black Ghost, that crushing loneliness that had made them unlikely allies, the same feelings of understanding, camaraderie, and shared experience that decades later had made them bedfellows. And each and every time Jet had broken it, each time he'd flown out the door or gotten himself torn to pieces. Each time Albert had to sit outside Gillmore's operating room and hope the person that woke up would still be Jet. Or that he'd wake up at all.

He remembers what was left of Jet after tumbling from space the first time. Mechanical lungs making fluted sounds in the ocean winds, visible vertebrae and skull, chunks of flesh and bone, wire and metal. He sees it again and again, sometimes a red head, sometimes his mind muddling the image into a blond, but always too much. Either way too much.

Tears trace rivers down Albert's face, dropping to the floor and leaving small darker circles in the wood. There is no sobbing, no sound at all from Albert aside from the quiet grinding of his teeth, angry still through the pain. Or because of it.

[metalicarus]

Jet was, honestly, at a loss of what to do. He'd never seen Albert like this and he was never very good at comforting, but he knew he had to do something. Seeing the older cyborg like that solidified one thing for him and that was that he wasn't leaving--and he wasn't letting Albert leave--until they worked through this. Somehow. Twenty-seven years had been too long and he didn't want there to be another day with this between them, not when he'd literally just died so Joe could stop the world from blowing up.

He knelt down beside 004, one hand going to his shoulder while the other moved to wipe the tears from Albert's cheek. He hesitated barely a second before he just pulled Albert to his chest and wrapped his arms around the other man tightly, protests be damned. Since his words had failed him in the past, he hoped his actions would serve him a little better.

[copesetic]

When Jet kneels and leans in close, Albert has a visceral reaction. He pushes against Jet's shoulder, curling his hand into a fist and hitting the other man once, twice, trying to stop him, trying to keep him away, to keep him from shattering open entirely the breach that's already been torn in the last few minutes. He can't do it, he can't, he won't.

Only the punches have barely any strength behind them and the tears still flow freely and suddenly he's enveloped in the other cyborg's embrace. His breath comes ragged and painful, gulping air thickly just to have it wracked from him again in silent sobs as he finally just gives in, burying his face in Jet's neck roughly. A one man army and he's defenseless against this sort of assault.

about a month later...

[silberfuchs]

Domestic life with someone else has been difficult for Albert to adjust to but in general he's made the changes happily. The first week and a half had been something of a honeymoon, all touch and taste and Jet sneaking into his showers. They'd even been caught holding hands under the table when meeting the others for a family lunch. It was like something out of a teen romance movie and Joe still hadn't stopped giving Jet those perfectly beaming 'I'm so happy for you' type of expressions, while Albert had to contend with Francoise having 'I told you so' written all over her face. And she had, he had to admit. He smiles a little sheepishly every time he receives that look.

They'd quickly fallen back into their old routine, though the old became new with the decades having come between. For all the time Albert hadn't seen Jet in years the blond had matured. There were no more arguments about clothes left on the floor or childish jabs just because he was in a bad mood. That's not to say they didn't have their fair share of spats when topics came up - Jet was going a little bit stir crazy with no job left to him - but Albert readily compromised by telecommuting. And what arguments did escalate didn't send the younger cyborg flying off to cool his head anymore. They talked it out, he never left. It was a breath of fresh air because, inwardly, Albert wasn't certain if he could handle it if Jet left again in anger. If those doors closed behind the American again, he's fairly certain if he came back, he'd come back to a wall. But all in all things were relatively peaceful.

Which is why Albert was surprised when the nightmares started again.

He'd had them before, ever since Black Ghost's defeat. The long beach stretching out into the distance, pitch black water on bloody red sand, the surface littered with smoldering flesh and bright red still cooling metal. He doesn't want to look, he knows what's laying there, but the dream moves on regardless. He steps through the wreckage, the scent making him sick. There's a finger in the sand to his left, the bone stark white against the sanguine red of the grains. To his right is a leg, sparking cables sizzling in the foggy air.

And then he finds it. He knew it was there and tried so damn hard to stop, to look away, to end what he knew was a dream, a memory turned nightmare. Jet's face as it had been, the remaining brandy eye wide and staring, unseeing but pain and fear evident. His cybernetic lungs are exposed, the ocean breeze making morbid music through the gaps, through the cracked pipe meant to be an integral part of Jet's cooling system. Blood and oil and other fluids stain anything, everything that remains and the burning smell, sickly and acrid, pervades his nose, makes his eyes water, makes his stomach flop as if the ground has just dropped from him and then the entire world is what's left of Jet's face, the single eye staring, accusing, why didn't you stop me?

Albert sits up in bed, immediately bringing his metal hand to his forehead in silence. It takes him a moment to reorient himself. His apartment, his bed, Jet there next to him, miraculously whole and still quietly snoring. The German stares at Jet, knowing that resentment is imagined. But for the moment he needs a bit of time, just enough to dispel the dregs of the dream.

Quietly, Albert slips from the room, pulling on just his loose sweats and padding down the stairs to the kitchen, putting on the kettle. Tea, he's found, is the best for soothing his nerves after these episodes. This is hardly the first time he's had it, far from it in fact. Ever since it had happened he'd dreamed of that broken body, that charred face off and on for years. Decades. He's fairly certain he'll dream of it until the day he dies.

He pours the tea, taking the kettle off as it first begins to boil in order to keep it from whistling, keep it from waking Jet upstairs. He shouldn't have to suffer for Albert's sleeplessness. With a sigh, the white-haired cyborg collapses heavily on the couch, pulling the blanket - the same one he'd tossed to Jet that first night in fact. It lives there now - around his shoulders and turning the television on to its lowest volume. He may not want to wake Jet but he needs noise for once, needs something else for his mind to focus on then twisted metal and charred flesh.

[metalicarus]

Jet, for his part, was sleeping his usual dreamless sleep. He couldn't remember when he'd stopped dreaming but, if he had to guess, he'd say it was when he walked out on his whole family and left everything he cared about behind. Maybe it was because he'd stopped having anything to dream about. There'd been one or two mornings in the last month when he thought he could remember some flash of a dream, but it was hardly worth noting.

One thing that didn't change from when he was human to when he became a cyborg to even when he was rebuilt: he was a light sleeper. Years of sleeping in an environment where the difference between being able to wake up when someone snuck up on you and when you couldn't was life and death had made him that way. Consequently, it didn't take him long to wake up after Albert left their bed. At first, Jet thought it was just a temporary thing, so he tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but when the German didn't come back after a couple minutes, Jet decided to check on him.

He was a little surprised to see Albert sitting on the couch watching T.V. but it was the tea that tipped him off to there being something wrong. The older cyborg never drank that stuff except for when there was something wrong. As quietly as he could, he crept downstairs and to where Albert was sitting, wrapping his arms around those broader shoulders as he pressed a light kiss to white hair.

"Why're you down here?" He wanted to ask what was wrong instead, but he was willing to give Albert the chance to offer it himself. Even if he didn't actually expect to get the real answer.

[silberfuchs]

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" The kiss is welcome and he raises his free hand to rest on Jet's arms around him lightly. His pale eyes trace the line of Jet's jaw then float back to moving images on the screen. Some random movie with everything dubbed into Italian, but the language came back to them in their native tongues thanks to the translators. The effect was strange to Albert but likely even worse for Jet, who would simply hear Humphrey Bogart as dubbed by some other actor still in English.

"I just couldn't get back to sleep." It's more of an explanation than he would have given in years past but still said nothing of why.

[metalicarus]

"No, it's fine." Which meant yes, but he really didn't care, he was far more concerned with his partner than anything else. He was pleased he wasn't brushed off entirely, but he knew that wasn't the whole answer.

He gave the T.V. his attention for all of five seconds before he let Albert go and moved around the couch to sit beside him instead. He folded his long legs under him and gave his complete attention to Albert, hoping the other man would understand Jet wasn't going anywhere until he was satisfied. Although, his expression wasn't all that intense as it was reminiscent of his younger self when he was being pouty."Ok...now why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

[silberfuchs]

That face. Why does Jet always have to push things? Albert lets out a sigh and stands up, shedding the cover of the blanket and making a tactical retreat to the kitchen. "Do you want some tea? Or I could make you some coffee."

It's a last attempt to make Jet leave it alone. It's easier to simply rebury the memory and not acknowledge its existence. He doesn't see it as running, running would be not trying again, being too afraid of that memory to carry on. It had almost been that way with Hilda, the memory of her lifeless body in his arms had haunted his thoughts all the way until they'd faced 0011. For the sake of the team, of their survival, he'd had to put it away.

He's trying to do the same now, but there's less closure. Jet is here, yes, but it's because of that that Albert is worried. At least with Hilda there was nothing else that could happen to hurt her. Nothing else he could do to hurt her. Not that he ever had on purpose, lord no, never, but her death was his fault. If he'd never thought up that crazy scheme...

He'd made his peace with that long ago. He tries to look forward, she would want that. In fact, as annoying as he's certain she would find Jet, the German knows she would be glad that he found such light in his life again. She was always worried about him in that way, that he didn't smile enough...

But its difficult to look forward, to throw all trust into one person after they'd left you twice. More than twice if you count the number of times he'd simply walked out, but death. Death is different, even if he'd found the one person it miraculously doesn't stick to.

He doesn't bother waiting for Jet's answer; he knows the American has no palette for tea. He'd spit it explosively in GB's face the first time he'd tried it, in fact. It had been quite a laugh. Well, perhaps not for GB, but everyone else. Instead Albert puts the coffee pot on.

[metalicarus]

The apartment he shared with Albert wasn't very big by any stretch of the imagination, but it never failed to feel impossibly empty when it was just him in it. He didn't begrudge his partner his job in Germany, as long as he didn't mind doing it, Jet didn't really care. Besides, time apart wasn't a bad thing, as much as he loved the older man they were still capable of driving each other up a wall in the right circumstances.

Still, that time apart left Jet, still jobless and uncertain what to do with himself, at a loss for things to do. He'd spend some time watching T.V. and even reading a few select books, but then the vast silence and emptiness of the house just made him antsy and he had to walk around.

Luckily, Venice was still entertaining enough to walk around, even after all their time there, and he could always find one of the others to hang around with if they were available. He was supposed to meet Frannie and Joe later, but that was hours from now and not very helpful for his current predicament. His wanderings took him past the tourist beacon that was the Basilica and stopped at one of the piers, just looking out at the water sparkling with sunlight.

It was a lovely day and part of him wanted to just jump off the pier and shoot into the sky for a while, but if something went wrong or he flew too far, he'd get stranded and then be in a whole slew of trouble he really wasn't looking for. Besides, if he did anything reckless that got him into a position to worry Albert, he'd be in for more trouble than what Gilmore could throw at him. It had been a while, but his last Great Stunt had really put him on thin ice for any reckless things he thought sounded like a good idea. Possibly forever.

He wasn't willing to test it just yet.

Which meant he was grounded for now and left with just enjoying the nice day from the pier. The warm weather and peaceful setting were making him relaxed and completely unaware of anything any of the usual crowd of tourists were up to. That was why it wasn't hard for a man that had come from that group to sneak up behind him and press the prongs of a taser right into the middle of Jet's back.

Electricity, made more effective and easier to conduct due to all the metal parts throughout his body, coursed through him and he felt like he was left to watch as his body did what he didn't want it to do and fell to his knees. The man who'd caused it seemed distant to Jet's ears as he heard the guy act as if Jet's collapsing was entirely random and he just had to get the poor blond to the paramedics as soon as possible.

He could feel himself being manhandled to some place he knew for a fact was not in the direction of the closest medical center and he really just wanted to punch all of their faces in and fly off, but he couldn't even get his mouth to work, much less any other part of his body. His eyes darkened as his body gave in to the effects of the electricity and the last thought he was aware of was how he hadn't even done anything and he was going to worry Albert anyway. He couldn't catch a break.

[silberfuchs]

He still left flowers. Every year, like clockwork. Not on the same spot as the road still existed and was used, albeit as a tourist attraction, but against the remnants of the wall. Always the same bouquet of iris and forget-me-not, standing out in white and purple against the drab and stained gray of the wall, under the plaque that honored the dead.

"It's been quite a year. I'm not certain where to begin." His hands find their way into the pockets of his long black overcoat, silver buttons glinting dully in the overcast light. "Jet returned, finally. It took the world nearly coming apart again to do it but I'm sure you've gathered he never does anything plainly."

He chuckles quietly, even fondly, able to finally let go of the residual hurt. It's freeing, talking to Hilda here, better than any sort of formal confession. "He's calmed down, though, generally speaking. He's more willing to listen. I think you'd find him more agreeable now than you would have at first, though he has the same bad habit of leaving shoes out to trip on. I'm understanding now why you used to get so frustrated with that. Even so, I think I can finally put my reservations to rest and trust him as he says I can. He's really not going anywhere this time."

There's a sentimental pause before he goes on in his mother tongue, softly recounting the past year in full. Every small event and working his way up to the "His Voice" and all that entailed, as he sees it. By the time he's done, the November weather has turned colder and small flakes of snow drop from the sky at intervals then stop, as if the sky can't decide what it wants to do. He can faintly hear security going around the area and ushering tourists out. "I should go. I have to check in at work and catch my flight in the morning. Ich vermisse dich."

Fingers raise to lips and Albert passes a gentle kiss from the fingertips of his left hand to the wall above the flowers, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles. "Ich werde bis zum nächsten Jahr."

Hands again concealed in his pockets, the German makes his way from the world heritage site and back onto the streets of Berlin, feeling peaceful and wondering if he should perhaps call Jet when he gets back to the hotel, maybe see if he'd like some sort of kitschy souvenir, though Jet doesn't really collect anything. He does tend to leaf through the comics whenever Albert drags him out to the book store. Perhaps something like that? The irony of an American superhero in German language would give him a laugh, if anything. Decided, he makes his way to a local bookshop and browses through until he finds a Superman comic, which stays in its bag all through the GSG meeting despite his growing urge to read it instead of listen to officials go on and on. Honestly he's not even certain why he's there at all.

Exhausted, Albert collapses back at his hotel post meeting, the digital clock on the nightstand declaring it to be a little before midnight. He only makes it through taking off his coat before his drowsiness takes him.

Ten minutes later his phone rings, an obnoxious polka tune that Jet had likely changed his phone to in a fit of childish boredom. Albert snorts, annoyance tempered by the reminder of home - funny how Venice had become home now - and reached over to answer. "Hallo?"

"Albert? It's Francoise." Her voice comes to him sounding strained and worried. He sits up, running his hand back through his hair as he makes an acknowledging sound, waiting for her to tell him what's wrong. "Did Jet change his mind and go with you to Germany after all?"

He feels his blood turn to ice in his veins as she asks the question but somehow his voice remains even. "No, he's not with me."

"I-I see..." she pauses, then regroups in an effort to sound cheerful. "I'm sure it's nothing! Joe's out looking for him right now, but he probably just lost track of time or forgot we had dinner plans. Don't worry. We'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Verstanden. I'll see you then." He hangs up the phone mechanically, staring at the call ended screen and attempting to dispel the heavy feeling in his gut that Jet had gotten himself into something dangerous. Albert knows the American is bored beyond measure, puttering around the house with little to do, but to go missing...

Mouth pressed in a thin line, Albert looks up the number of his airline and calls to move his flight up, holding the phone with his shoulder as he stuffs everything into his suitcase haphazardly. If it turns out to be nothing, Jet is going to get it. He'll be on the couch for a month, at least.

If not, Albert can't take that risk.

[metalicarus]

He couldn't remember a lot of what happened after he passed out. There were a couple times when he gained a sort of half consciousness, but voices slurred together and it didn't take long for whoever had him to discover him half awake and fix that problem.

When he did finally regain full consciousness, it was slow and the first thing he was aware of was how everything organic about him hurt; no doubt thanks to the volts that had been pumped through his system. Slowly, he moved to sit up as his eyes cleared and adjusted to the bright lighting.

The room reminded him of when he first woke up in Black Ghost's facility and, for just one panicked second, he thought that was exactly where he was. He clung to the assurance that it had been nearly thirty years since there'd been any activity, so it wasn't very likely that it was them, but there was still a small part of him that feared he was wrong.

It wasn't just for himself either, he was plenty afraid that if this was Black Ghost, they'd completely cybornize him or even rip him apart for scrap, but he was more afraid for his family if they managed to figure out where he was and decided they needed to rescue him. He appreciated the thought but the last thing he wanted was to be the reason they all got captured again after all they had done to prevent that.

He sat on the bed that was just as colorless as everything else in the room and let his attention fall to the floor. All he could do now was wait and hope whoever these assholes were would tell him their Grand Plan so he could work on breaking out of there. He had nearly begun to think they were just going to let him rot by the time someone did show up.

It was a man in a suit with a shiny FBI badge clipped to his pocket that sent both relief and apprehension through Jet, accompanied by two stoic looking men with weird guns in their hands. Protection, no doubt, from the volatile, captured, cyborg. For one moment, Jet thought he might be able to trick them into letting him go by listing off his I.D. number for the NSA, but they shot that down quickly enough by proving they knew exactly who he was. In fact, that was why he was here.

Jet Link, the man who loved his country enough to choose it over any other and serve it the best way he could, was considered a dangerous traitor and enemy of said country. He'd 'attacked' the Pentagon on top of being in line to take the fall for the bombing of Dubai, so there'd been a warrant for his arrest...and they'd eventually tracked him down.

His chest suddenly felt tight at the thought that, if they knew where he was, that might mean they'd go after the others too, but just a few well placed questions told him they didn't know he hadn't been alone. Nor did it seem like they really cared. Well at least there was that.

He was informed there wouldn't be a trial and that he was facing either permanent incarceration or death by whatever method seemed best for someone 'like him.' And then he'd been left alone to stew in his thoughts.

He was feeling so many things at once. Anger at the fact that it hadn't been his fault that he'd done what he had at the Pentagon and that he was being betrayed by his own government. a sliver of acceptance because, whether he meant to or not, he had killed innocent people. Anxiety at the thought of being trapped and enclosed for however long it would take for him to eventually break down and die on his own accord...if that ever even happened. Sadness because the people he cared about probably had no idea and what if they thought he'd just up and left on his own? Why should they be surprised, he'd done it in the past. Worse of all, though, was the knowledge that, should they decide death for the 'dangerous traitor' was the best course of action, he wouldn't even get a chance to say he was sorry for checking out early again.

That anger and sadness did result in him trying to escape one day, but it had ended in him finding out those weird guns shot electro-magnetic rays that caused a complete shut down and instant loss of consciousness. That hadn't been a fun morning for him.

Some official came to check on him later that day and Jet had tried to pull the whole 'I'm an American citizen, I have rights' spiel to which he was informed that 'toasters don't have rights so why should he?' Jet had never wanted to punch someone so much in his life. Regardless, the message the man gave him was that a decision had been reached. Due to the political circumstances surrounding him, his execution would be in a week.

For the first time in a long time, Jet let a few tears escape his eyes that night. Partly for himself and partly for the family he was leaving behind who would likely only find out in the morning newspaper what had happened to their errant flyer. Jet wasn't particularly familiar with the feeling of hopelessness, but he recognized it when it flooded his system and left him doing nothing but staring at the whitewashed ceiling.

He didn't know when it showed up or who put it there, but eventually he noticed the bright yellow cover of a book lying on the floor near the door, as though someone had thrown a bone to a scary animal before hurriedly shitting the door before it bit them. For that thought alone he nearly didn't check it out. He fetched the novel and retreated back to his original, desolate, position on the bed. That was when he noticed the name of the book and a small, fleeting, smile touched his lips.

The Maltese Falcon was about the only title that could possibly do that. It hurt to even look at the cover, the title brought back fonder memories of a time when nightmares were just things that haunted you when your eyes were closed and ran away like cowards when you opened them again. However, he couldn't resist the temptation to try and get through the story before his rapidly approaching execution date. He got through it in two days. He smirked a bit as the thought 'Albert was right.' ran through his head.

The next morning, he was greeted by the same official who'd come to tell him his government's decision and Jet was convinced he'd lost track of the days and was now facing a long walk off the impending plank. That wasn't the case. What 'big, bald, and ugly' as Jet had dubbed him (he didn't care enough to remember the guy's name) had come to tell him was that the plans had changed a bit. He was definitely still going to die but the method had changed. The NSA wanted him back so they could do exactly what he'd been thinking of when he'd thought the place was Black Ghost, they wanted to strip his parts and use the technology for their creepy Lazarus Cyborgs.

He almost preferred the idea of firing squad or whatever had been waiting for him.

It probably said something that the very thing he'd expected from the evil organization that had made him was what he was facing at the hands of the very government he would have sworn was better than that, but he didn't have much time to dwell on that irony. They wasted no time in knocking him out so they could transport him back to Maryland.

Everything was a whirlwind after that. He woke up in a new cell, strapped face first to a gurney that was wheeled out of there shortly after and into a room filled with scientists, soldiers, NSA officials, and doctors. This was it. He smiled ruefully to himself as he remembered his fear of not being able to say good-bye. Now he wondered if there'd even be some sort of press release or if no one would ever know what had happened to him.

The smile was quickly wiped from his face as pain ripped through his back and right arm. They were trying to pry open the booster panels on his back and the navigation panels on his arm. The pain ripped a sound from him and he felt whoever was working on his arm hesitate. That was met with a reassurance from some douchebag doctor he couldn't see that Jet couldn't feel pain like they did. He wasn't human anymore, just a machine. The pain started afresh and for the first time since he'd become a cyborg, he wished he hadn't been given the pain sensors in his artificial skin. Now he just wanted it over.

[silberfuchs]

It takes a lot to break a man like Albert Heinrich and while cracks were showing, he wasn't done yet.

When he'd touched back down in Venice, only Francoise and Joe had met him, both looking anxious and neither having seen any trace of Jet. There was nothing, no contact. His phone went straight to voice mail and no one in the city had heard a thing. Albert took the news with an air of placidity, the same sort of charged calm you get before a large storm. He collected his bag wordlessly from the carousel and took long-legged strides towards the door, Joe and Francoise forced to hurry in order to catch up. "We're going to Gilmore."

He knew the other two cyborgs exchanged a look. He didn't have to turn and see them, just listened as he stepped out into the cooler air of the city. The misgivings were not unfounded, he knows, and the reason for the pause is confirmed when Francoise speaks up hesitantly. "He has disappeared bef-"

"Not like this." Albert cuts her off curtly, adjusting the glove on his right hand before turning to look at his teammates. "Not without a word or reason. He always makes a big show of it, you both know that."

And he made me a promise, Albert adds privately. He made me a promise that he wouldn't leave again and I believed him. "There's something more to this."

Joe is the first to be convinced, nodding determinedly and starting again to lead the small party to his car. Francoise still has her doubts but the look on Albert's face - that blank but somehow driven look - pushes her onward regardless. She says nothing else to doubt Jet, just puts a brief but gentle hand on Albert's shoulder as she passes, following after Joe.

Gilmore has no leads either, to start, but some digging in Francoise's computer rig, hooked up to all the major government networks, reveals American extradition notices to the custody of the FBI for the perpetrator of treasonous acts. Albert doesn't need to see the photo to guess what happened. None of them do. Discussions ensue, Francoise trying to see where Jet's being held, when the trial will be - finding out there was to be none was a shock and took a supreme amount of digging. Joe pushes to call the group together, to send everyone on a mission to save one of their own. Geronimo preaches caution, but consents that they should all discuss it as a unit. Gilmore, even more wary in his old age, wonders aloud how many more times that boy will make him worry. And Albert is silent through it all, almost like Ivan but without the pale blue staring eyes, taking in all the information.

Albert simply waits.

Eventually they decide to wait for the rest of the group before they act. There is some time, after all, and Great Britain could possibly use his government connections to pull strings. It's a decent idea.

Only whatever time they perceive themselves as having is too short for Albert's tastes. He'd heard what Jet had said before he'd flown off to get himself killed, that the US was planning on using the zero zero cyborgs to take the blame for the bombing of Dubai, likely for the rogue missile launch as well. Jet was to be a scapegoat, a pariah for the American people. After all, it's easier to blame the man who's not quite like you, who's got the sills you're afraid of.

Perhaps they're just not afraid enough.

Albert leaves in the dead of night, pulling every string he has left to get to Washington D.C. on a private charter, stopping only once in Amsterdam to refuel. Twelve hours later he steps foot on the snow-dosed tarmac and immediately gets to work. Ammunition he has in spades, a mask to hide his features he procures easily; it is ski season after all. It's the planning that takes too long.

A week of greasing palms and dodging calls of his comrades only to finally relent in answering so as to ask Francoise to locate where Jet's being held, saying it's reconnaissance for their joint rescue effort. He told the lie blandly, as if asking for a cup of coffee, and somehow she'd believed it. Soon after, he made his move.

The plan was to sneak in under the guise of a security guard or a paper pusher, one of the faces that simply blends into the background, who's rarely noticed. That plan fell apart within the first five minutes when Albert's stolen access code didn't work and alerted the guard station to his presence.

So much for that.

He throws caution to the wind and storms the facility instead, an unstoppable force of bullets and missiles and balled up rage.

[metalicarus]

He knew that it would probably hurt a lot less if he just opened the panels up himself, but that would mean giving them access to technology they shouldn't have, so Jet wasn't going to make it easy for them. Besides, as much as it hurt and as much as he wanted it all over anyway, giving up and letting them have what they wanted felt like a betrayal to Doctor Gilmore.

These things were what led Jet to make it as difficult as possible for the scientists working. He couldn't move his arms, legs, or torso thanks to the metal restraints, but he could snap the panels closed again with a smirk as soon as they got them open. Of course, this resulted in them deciding to cut the panels they got up off, starting with the wing-like ones on his back and one panel on each arm. Luckily, it seemed they were smart enough to notice those only served a purpose when he was in the air and didn't even have anything but more arm under them, so they left it at one.

He could feel someone poking around at the jets on his feet when the fist sounds of something wrong reached him. Gunshots and shouts and chaos erupted, first in the hall out side of the 'operating theater' and then in the room itself as the doors flew off their hinges with an explosion. Scientists and doctors scrambled and ran for the nearest way out, although a couple of the lead scientists stayed where they were by their 'project' and kept working. They trusted the military to do what it was suppose to.

The soldiers indeed did what they were suppose to and fought back, shooting at the intruder and standing between him and what they assumed to be his target.

Jet had turned his face in the door's direction in an attempt to see what was going on. At first, he couldn't see the cause of the chaos, but it didn't matter, he knew the sound of that particular 'machine gun' and a surge of emotions rushed through him. Relief, concern, and love all mixed together that he couldn't identify them separately, but they brought a small and genuine smile to his lips. "Albert." His voice was barely a whisper, it wasn't meant for the scientists around him. Just seeing that grey hair and those light eyes swept the hopelessness and resignation away, all he wanted to do was stand up and fight with his partner.

The American wrenched at the restraints, not caring that they bit into his skin, and tried as hard as he could to snap the metal and get free.