Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Atlas dressed up in the blue suit, hoping it might distract Cristian into a flash of good humor. He found a car waiting out in front of Decebal’s house like normal, so he didn’t bother to go inside. Instead, he texted Cristian, I’m here.

The door opened a minute later and an argument spilled out into the cool night air. Cristian emerged with Ioana and Andrei hot on his heels, both talking rapidly. Their petitions didn’t matter to Atlas, not when the sight of his charge rattled through him like a percussive blast. It had only been a day since his last shift, but Cristian was transformed. Of course his designer clothes fit perfectly, but his carefully coiffed hair was hastily finger-swept instead, and his jaw shaded with stubble. His eyes were shadowed.

“You and I are leaving, Mr. Kinkaid,” Cristian commanded shortly as he slid into the backseat. The door slammed shut, cutting off his friends before they could join him.

Andrei cursed and stomped back inside. Ioana stood between the house and the car, unable to bring herself to chase Cristian when he’d dismissed her so openly.

After what they’d been through together at Desolation House, Atlas wasn’t going to leave her worrying again. He lifted a hand in greeting and told her, “I’ve got him.”

“We’ll see you there then,” she said, but didn’t move. She remained in the driveway when Atlas pulled the car away. Her figure grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until there was nothing behind them but an empty road.

“To Rapture?” Atlas asked.

“Not yet,” Cristian said. “Just...just drive.”

They had a full tank of gas, so Atlas obeyed. Cristian wasn’t in a mood for any conversation, let alone an honest admission of guilt and treachery, so Atlas kept himself busy by merging on and off the routes and interstates, disappearing in and out of the flow of traffic. He didn’t go too far from Scarsdale, instead traversing the city’s edges, sometimes indulging in the quiet promise of the smaller country roads with their cultivated fields and forested hillsides. It was on one of those roads around midnight that Cristian asked, “Can you pull over here?”

There was a turnoff ahead, which Atlas pulled into. He put the car in park and waited a moment before turning it off. The engine ticked as it cooled and the only other sound was their breathing in the enclosed space.

Maybe this was the right moment. Maybe out here, away from everyone else, he could find a way to convince Cristian he’d made an honest mistake and wanted to make up for it. He opened his mouth to begin when Cristian said, “Today’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.”

All his carefully organized apologies and rationalizations fled.

Cristian continued, “Don’t turn around. And don’t talk.”

The temptation to look back, to check on him in the mirror, was strong. The exhaustion in Cristian’s voice, his silent plea to listen, was stronger. Atlas kept his eyes on the expanse of dark road in front of them.

Cristian spoke quietly, his accent growing heavier as he struggled to get the words out. “I was still young when she died. She... It was just like with Mary. There was nothing but ashes left. We couldn’t even bury her. It’s been so long now. Little pieces keep disappearing, and every year I miss her more and more...”

He couldn’t hold his voice in any longer. “I hope the pain eases in time,” Atlas whispered. Inadequate words, but honest.

Silence from the back. “You’re the first person I can remember who didn’t apologize for her death,” Cristian said.

“It’s not my place to. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t know her. I only know you and, right now, I know you’re hurting.”

“Am I, Mr. Kinkaid?”

“Probably as much as I am, Mr. Slava.” His voice broke on the admission.

He wasn’t the only one carrying awful memories in his head. Cristian’s confession meant the moment they found Mary was so much worse than Atlas had thought. He’d been suffering with that for weeks and Atlas had never even known.

Cristian moved behind him. Atlas clenched his hands around the steering wheel to keep himself facing forward. He was rewarded by an amused huff when Cristian saw his effort, and he leaned over the console to look out the front windshield, trusting Atlas not to break his word.

Atlas didn’t need to. His senses had cataloged every detail about Cristian. The rustle of his clothes, the chamomile scent he favored, even his slow, measured breathing. He would never fail to find this man.

“I’ve shared my sob story,” Cristian said as they followed the bobbing path of a moth trying to choose between headlights. “You sounded like you wanted to say something. I hope you aren’t the type to leave a man wanting.”

It was an invitation to share his own burdens, but the teasing lilt of Cristian’s voice on the request and the comfortable darkness around them collided and sent Atlas’s mind spinning off in a completely different direction. He froze.

Cristian swore under his breath and gave Atlas’s bicep a reassuring squeeze. “I didn’t mean to pry, Atlas,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Cristian didn’t release him until he found his breath again. It was different from his attempt to ground Atlas at Hahn Lake. He didn’t use his voice to try to snap Atlas out of the moment. He relied on the gentle pressure of his hand and no extraneous movements, nothing to trick Atlas’s brain into fight or flight. By the time Atlas figured out Cristian had misread the moment as another flashback, the other man had already retreated to the backseat and begun tapping on his phone. The chance for honesty had passed.

“How long will it take us to get back to Rapture?” Cristian asked him.

“Half an hour?” Atlas guessed. If he didn’t meander down side roads, they could manage it.

“The others have been waiting for a while and I know I need a drink. Or ten.” He sounded amused when he added, “Ioana always gets angry when I do this. Says it makes the day even harder. Will you be angry too, Mr. Kinkaid, or will you just be disappointed?”