Archive of Our Own

He's cold, and his head hurts. Whatever he's lying on is hard. He has the worst cotton mouth in human history. 

For a minute or two while he struggles to wake up, Eugene thinks he just drank too much and passed out on Lance’s floor. Then he tries to rub the tension out of his aching head and realizes he can't fucking move, and his eyes snap open. 

He's not at Lance’s apartment, that's for goddamn sure. 

Stainless steel countertops lined with jars full of murky liquid and fleshy, floating things Eugene tries not to stare at. An industrial-sized refrigerator and a metal sink. Not a single window in the concrete walls. A door in front of him with heavy-looking locks, and another to his left with only a knob. Right by his head, a metal cart with a handful of terrifyingly sharp tools in a neat line. 

And in the center of the room, Eugene is lying on a freezing cold metal table. A quick glance shows he's covered from the neck down by a plain white sheet. An attempt to sit up makes him realize that under the sheet are thick, immovable straps across his hips, legs, and shoulders, holding him firmly in place. Even if they weren't, the strange fuzziness in his head and the heaviness in his limbs means he's very definitely been drugged. 

Okay, so Cass may have been right on this one. Playing bait for a serial killer was a bad idea. 

Eugene was right, too. Their killer obviously took the bait, since Eugene is currently strapped to an embalming table. His plan did work. Maybe just… a little too well. 

He and the rest of the BAU team have been in Old Corona for almost two weeks, trying to track down the killer who's been leaving men’s mutilated body’s scattered around the city for the last few years. The murders had started out few and far between—eight months between the first body and the second, and almost a year before the third—but by the time the local police called in the FBI, three bodies had turned up over the last four months. All white, dark-haired men in their late twenties and early thirties, missing for days or weeks at a time only to turn up as corpses in the woods outside Old Corona, all bearing obvious signs of torture and missing half their organs. 

Their profile was incomplete. Likely a woman, probably with medical training, who maybe had a partner, but they couldn't decide for sure. Whoever it is is smart and terrifyingly good at what they’re doing, to have gotten away with it for so long. When another body was found, they knew it was only a matter of time before the killer grabbed someone else. 

Thus, Eugene’s brilliant plan: use himself as bait. He fits the victim profile, and if he could draw the killer out, it would protect an innocent civilian from being kidnapped and tortured. In theory, the team should have been able to stop the killer from taking him in the first place, or at the very least follow her back to wherever she was keeping her victims. Eugene doesn't remember what happened between setting out last night and waking up here, but something clearly went wrong. 

He doesn't have long to think about it. The door ahead of him opens with a soft pop—a rubber seal all the way around it, Eugene’s fuzzy thoughts manage to piece together, perfect for soundproofing—and he hears footsteps walk into the lab. His head feels like it's full of rocks that go tumbling painfully around his skull at the slightest movement, but he manages to turn it to look. 

For a moment, he's not sure what he's looking at. He expected… well, their killer, whoever she is. A woman in scrubs and a lab coat. Frankenstein.  Frank N Furter, maybe. He didn't expect a kid. 

It's a little boy with black, messy hair, standing with his back to Eugene as he fiddles with something on the counter. Dark jeans, a plain t-shirt, bare feet. Eugene can't see his face, but the kid moves with casual familiarity as he pulls out a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels from one of the cabinets and begins to wipe down the counter. 

Eugene licks his lips. “Hi, there,” he croaks, and the kid jumps and whips around. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, blue eyes so wide they threaten to swallow up his face. 

From the murkiness of the last few hours, a blurry memory floats to the surface: a tiny little kid holding a leash clipped onto an empty dog collar, tear-filled eyes and a pathetic little, “My dog slipped out of her collar, have you seen her?”

Mother fucker. No wonder they couldn't figure out the partner angle, if the partner is a kid. 

The kid stares at Eugene for a few seconds, then shakes his head sharply and turns back to finish wiping down the counter. Eugene doesn't want to think about what for. 

He clears his throat and tries again. “I'm Flynn,” he says, not so out of it he forgets he’s still technically undercover. “What's your name?”

The kid glances over his shoulder at Eugene, expression torn. “I don't… I'm not supposed to talk to the bodies,” he says nervously. 

Okay, arguably the most horrifying thing anyone’s ever said to him. Eugene makes himself smile. “But I'm not a body,” he says. “I'm alive.”

“For now,” the kid says, which immediately steals first place in the “horrifying statements” contest. “I shouldn't…” He shakes his head again and goes back to his task, cleaning the counters with quick, jerky movements before throwing away the paper towels and putting the spray bottle back in the cabinet. He hurries to cross the room towards the other door, tiny jaw set as he carefully avoids looking at Eugene on the table. 

“My name’s Flynn,” Eugene says again, trying to keep his voice gentle even as his heart starts to pound at the idea of being left alone in this room. “Flynn Rider.”

The kid freezes with his hand on the doorknob, then turns just enough to frown at Eugene. “Like Flynnigan Ryder?” 

What the hell, nobody knows those books. Eugene wouldn't be allowed to use that name when he goes undercover if anyone actually knew those books. 

He hitches a smile back into place to cover his surprise and says, “Yeah, my mom really liked them, so she named me after him. Have you read them?”

The kid’s mouth turns up in a tentative smile, and he lets go of the doorknob. “They're my favorite,” he says, taking a few hesitant steps towards Eugene. “I've read them a lot.”

“Which one do you like best?” Eugene asks. “I always liked the ones where he teams up with Lance Strongbow.”

“I like those ones too,” the kid says. He shuffles a little closer, eyes lighting up. “Have you read the one where he duels the Earl of Camembert?”

“Not since I was a kid,” Eugene admits. “I haven't reread them in a while. Is that the one with, uh… the mines?”

The kid nods eagerly, thank god. It's been well over a decade since Eugene picked up the books, and whatever he's been drugged with is making it hard to remember what he was doing yesterday morning, let alone when he was a teenager. 

“The copper mines,” the kid says now. “To save all the orphans there.”

Eugene can't quite remember details of that book, or how Flynn Rider saved orphans from a copper mine, but he nods at the same. “Yeah, that one's good,” he says. “Hey, do you… live here?”

The kid clamps his mouth shut. Okay, personal questions are a no go. Stick with what works, Fitzherbert. 

“Who's your favorite character?” he asks instead. “Or is Flynn your favorite?”

The kid hesitates for a moment, looking unsurely at the door he came in through before saying, “I like Flynn best. Who, um.” He frowns a little, apparently thinking hard about something before awkwardly asking, “Who's your favorite character?”

Flynn and Lance Strongbow are the only two characters Eugene can remember right now, and he'll never live it down if he says Lance. “Oh, definitely Flynn. He's the coolest.”

The kid nods quickly, expression relieved. “Yeah, I think so, too. ‘Cause he's the best duelist in the seven kingdoms, and he has the fastest horse ever born, and he goes on all the funnest adventures.”

“It must be pretty fun to be him, huh?” Eugene asks, and the kid nods again. 

“I mean, you are him,” he points out. “At least your name. That's so cool. I'm not even named after anyone.”

“I bet your name is also pretty cool, though,” Eugene says. “Can I ask what it is? Or no?”

The kid chews on his lip, but he looks more thoughtful than nervous now. “I'm not supposed to tell strangers.”

“We're not strangers,” Eugene says. “We have the same favorite book, so we're basically best friends already.” The kid hesitates, and Eugene says, “Okay, can I guess?”

“Um, okay,” the kid says. “But I'm really not supposed to say, so I can't tell you if you got it right.”

“No problem,” Eugene says. “You look like a…” He frowns, making a show of mulling it over before he says, “Humperdinck.”

The kid snorts out a surprised laugh. “What?”

“No?” Eugene asks. “Okay, Rumplestiltskin. Elizabertha. John Jacob Jingleheimmer-Schmidt. Am I close? Stop me when I get there.”

The kid laughs harder at each ridiculous suggestion, eventually pressing both hands over his mouth to muffle his giggles. “No,” he says. “No, that's not close, why would I be named that? Why would anyone be named that?”

“What if I had said my name is Humperdinck, huh?” Eugene asks. “That could've been my name, kid. Would you have laughed at it then?”

“Is your name Humperdinck?” the kid asks. 

“Well, no,” Eugene says. 

“Then I can laugh at it,” the kid says primly, and Eugene snickers despite himself. 

“All right, fair point.” The kid looks more relaxed than he has since he came into the room, and Eugene doesn't know how long he has alone with him before whatever happens next. He doesn't want to scare the kid off, but he’s terrifyingly aware of the fact that he still doesn't know where he is or how he got there. He's even more terrifyingly aware of the fact that he's been working this case for weeks, and he knows exactly what their killer does to her victims before disposing of them. “So, Mr. Not-Humperdinck,” he drawls, and the kid grins again. “Can I ask you a question, since I seem to have misplaced my watch?”

“What's the question?” the kid asks. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Eugene asks. “I don't see a clock, and I can't help but notice there's no windows, either.”

Information that Eugene desperately needs, but that's hopefully innocuous enough the kid won't calm up again, especially when he's still grinning. 

“It's almost seven,” the kid says, then adds, “in the morning,” when Eugene opens his mouth again. 

“Oh, thanks,” Eugene says, trying to hide how his stomach just dropped. He went out at 9:30 last night. That's almost twelve hours gone. If the team saw him get taken, they would have been able to follow him. And if they had followed him, he wouldn't still be here the next morning. Somehow their unsub got him away from everyone and into what's very clearly a homemade morgue without them noticing. 

All because Eugene was stupid enough to believe a little kid who said he lost his dog, even though he knew someone was snatching men that looked just like him off the street. 

He squashes that thought. Getting pissed at himself won't do anything but distract him, and getting pissed at the kid will only upset him. He doesn't look older than seven or eight; Eugene can't imagine he’s been willingly helping to collect victims for whoever's actually been doing the chopping. Until Eugene receives actual proof that this kid is somehow behind the murders, he's not going to blame him for it. 

But who is behind it? A parent? Sibling? Kidnapper? Eugene doesn't doubt the kid is another victim, in one way or another. He just wants to know how he got here. 

“Almost seven?” he asks, instead of anything along the lines of who the hell are you or what the fuck is this place and what are we doing here. “Man, I'm normally up before six. I slept in.”

“It's the medicine,” the kid says sagely. “It makes you sleepy.”

Eugene frowns. “Medicine?”

“That Mom gave you,” the kid explains. “So you fall asleep, and we can bring you here.”

Mom. Well, that answers that question, as much as Eugene hates the answer. 

“Right,” he says. “Is your mom here?”

“She'll be down here in a minute,” the kid says. “She's finishing upstairs. But, um.” He hesitates, looking at the door again before looking back at Eugene. “Can you please not tell her I talked to you? I'm not supposed to.”

“Okay,” Eugene says. “I mean, I'll try not to say anything.”

He doesn't want to make promises he can't keep—he's seen the photos, seen the last body in person, he knows what's about to happen—but the kid just nods a little, looking satisfied, then says, “You won't be able to talk soon, anyways. So it's fine.”

Eugene’s mouth goes dry at the matter-of-fact way the kid says that. “I won't?”

The kid shakes his head. “'Cause she's gonna give you more medicine.” 

Eugene's throat clicks as he swallows. “Right. No chance I can skip that?”

“The medicine?” the kid asks, frowning. “No, you need that so you don't move around. She can't do the autopsy if you're moving.”

Autopsy.  Autopsy, fuck, fuck–

“I don't think she can do an autopsy on me,” Eugene says. He tries for a smile. It feels queasy. “That's something for after you die, and I'm alive.”

The kid’s frown deepens into a glare. “No, you're a body. You– oh, shoot.”

The door cracks open again, and the kid scampers away from Eugene back towards the counters, rifling through the drawer to pull out more supplies that Eugene can't focus on, because his eyes are focused on the woman stepping through the door. 

She's smaller than he expected, short and petite with greying auburn hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and the same bright blue eyes and freckles as the kid. At a glance, still fuzzy from drugs and with panic starting to cloud his mind, Eugene would put her at maybe a decade or so older than himself, somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. She's in clean, navy blue scrubs and white sneakers. No jewelry, no makeup. 

She doesn't so much as glance at Eugene as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her, just makes a beeline for the kid. 

“Got everything set up, baby?” she asks. 

“Almost,” the kid says, with a quick, tense smile. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

“Distracted?” she asks with a small laugh. “Doing what?” The kid shrugs, carefully laying out gauze and tape on the counter, and she shakes her head with a fond smile, ducks to press a quick kiss to his temple, then steps past him towards the sink. “All right, silly boy, I'm gonna get washed up while you finish. Let me know if you need help.”

“I got it,” he assures her with a wide, toothy grin. His shoulders drop with relief when she doesn't ask anymore questions about what distracted him, and he starts to turn towards Eugene before freezing like he thinks better of it, bending his head studiously over his task. Eugene watches them with sharp eyes, trying to take in as much information as he can and rapidly editing and rearranging the profile in his head. 

Female unsub: Correct. Partner: partially correct. Medical training: well. Eugene guesses he'll have a better idea of that in a few minutes. 

“Doctor?” he asks, cautious. Neither of them turn around. “Can I ask why I'm here?”

The doctor finishes washing her hands and pats them dry, then reaches over to snap on a pair of blue gloves out of a box by the sink. The kid finishes getting out whatever supplies he was grabbing, then takes his own turn at the sink. He pulls on a smaller pair of gloves from another box, clearly designed for a child, then holds up his hands for his mom’s inspection. 

“Looking good,” his mom says, and he grins proudly and slaps the hand she holds out for a high five. “Are we all set up for surgery, nurse?”

“Yes, doctor,” the kid says, still grinning like this is a game, like he's just a regular kid playing make believe with his mom, like Eugene isn’t strapped to a table just a few feet away. His smile dims a little when he glances at Eugene and accidentally makes eye contact with him, but he looks away sharply a second later, hurrying towards the tools he set out on the counter. “Is this the right amount?”

“Hm.” His mom picks up a small vial of a clear liquid, squinting at it for a moment before glancing back at Eugene, expression calculating. “It seems like a high dosage.”

“The body’s in excellent condition,” the kid says, voice faltering unsurely and shoulders inching up towards his ears again. “So I thought, um, if he– if it's really healthy, then–”

“No, that's a good idea, baby,” the doctor says, and the kid’s shoulders drop again at the glowing smile she gives him. “You figured that out just right. Let's see that syringe.”

She pushes the needle the kid hands her through the seal of the bottle, eyeing it carefully as she slowly fills it, then sets the bottle to the side and taps on the syringe before turning to Eugene. He didn't exactly appreciate being ignored before, but having her attention suddenly turned on him is that much worse. His whole body feels cold. 

“What surgery am I having?” he asks, trying desperately to read her face for any sort of reaction. There's nothing. He might as well not be talking. “Thank you for–” She pulls the sheet back, takes the alcohol wipe the kid hands her, and swipes it across his bicep, cold and wet. Try to fight? Play into her delusion? “–for doing the surgery, I’m sure I'll–” A pinch and then a dull ache as she slides the needle under his skin and depresses the plunger. What is she trying to accomplish? What are the magic words Eugene has to say to at least make her hesitate? Threats are useless when he's obviously at her mercy, and he doubts she'll be as interested as the kid in talking about obscure fantasy books from the 50s. Flattery it is. “–I’ll feel better once you… you do th’... wha’ y’r gonna…”

His mouth isn't moving right. His mouth isn't moving at all. The words devolve into a garbled mess as the tension leaks out of his body, and he goes limp on table, eyelid drifting halfway shut of their own accord when they prove too heavy to keep open. He tries to speak, tries to twitch a finger, but it's like his mind has disconnected from his body. He's still awake, can still feel as the doctor pulls the sheet down to his hips and adjusts the straps out of the way, but his body feels like it's made of lead. 

A paralytic, the coroner had told him and Cass when they went to the morgue to examine the bodies. No traces of actual anesthesia, no painkillers, but all of the victims had been pumped full of a heavy-duty muscle relaxer. 

“Mom?” the kid asks, and through his lashes, Eugene sees his blurry outline step up to the table next to the doctor. “Did he say thank you?”

“It didn't say anything, sweetheart,” the doctor says. “It's just a body.”

“No, I know, but. They're normally mad. They don't say thank you, they say things like–”

“They don't say anything,” the doctor says sharply. “The bodies don't talk, and we don't talk to the bodies. You know that.” The kid doesn't answer immediately, and the doctor kisses her teeth. “You know that,” she repeats, testy. “Right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the kid says quickly. “Yeah, I– I'm sorry. I know that. I do.”

The doctor sighs, but all the annoyance has disappeared from her voice when she murmurs, “I know it's confusing, baby. You'll understand when you're older, okay?”

“Okay,” the kid says. “I'm sorry.”

“I forgive you,” the doctor says, and Eugene can't see clearly, but he hears a clatter of metal by his head as she picks one of the knives up off the tray. “Got the recorder ready?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Eugene hears a soft, plastic click, then feels thin, cold metal pressed against his chest, just below his collarbone. “April 17th, 2023,” the doctor says. “Subject is male John Doe, approximately late twenties, cause of death unknown. Making the first incision.”

Eugene's been hurt before. His dad broke his arm once as a kid. He's been in fights. He made it through all the training at the FBI academy, not to mention five years as a field agent, chasing down the worst kinds of monsters the world can produce. Fights, bad days at the gym, the time he got grazed with a bullet while chasing down a suspect with Cass. 

All of that pales in comparison to the sharp, clean pressure of the knife, gone from cold to burning almost immediately, with the doctor's quiet, almost uninterested voice droning on, describing every touch and slice while Eugene can't even move enough to scream. 

He doesn't know if it's the drugs or the pain that pulls him under eventually, but passing out is a relief. 

He wakes up cold. He's surprised to wake up at all, honestly; he would have thought that he couldn't survive something that hurt like that. His whole chest is still aching, burning hot and throbbing while the rest of his body feels like ice. He can't make himself open his eyes, head swimming as he tries to take stock of himself as best he can, trying to gauge his own injuries by feel before he makes himself look. 

Pain, is what he comes back with, along with a silent string of expletives that would have earning him a beating growing up. He treats himself to a soft, emphatic “fuck,” then pries his eyes open. 

It's dark down here. He doesn't know how much time has passed, if it's late at night now or if the doctor just turned out the lights after Eugene’s surgery. 

God. God, she fucking– Eugene couldn't move, he couldn't move , she just talked about him like he wasn't a person. It hurt, and it hurts now. He's going to scream, he's going to throw up, he can't breathe. His lungs aren't working, breath rattling around in his torn-open chest like it doesn't know how to get out of his mouth. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut as tears leak down his temples and into his hair. His body still feels strange and disconnected, but not that terrifying stillness that overtook him while the doctor was cutting into him. The straps are still in place, even if it didn't hurt to so much as breathe, let alone sit up. He's alone in the dark, unable to move, with nothing to do but focus on pain that's more than he knows how to process. 

He had tricks for this, as a kid. Dealing with the big things and the scary things, ways to distract himself from his mom not coming home again or his dad doing his best to drink himself to death before Eugene hit double digits. He doesn't think those games are gonna work for this. Back then, all he had to worry about were raised voices and staying out of arms reach of his dad when Edmund had been drinking. Back then, he thought the worst thing that could happen was a broken arm. 

Where the fuck are Cass and the team? They have to be looking for him. Knowing Cass, she'll go door to door to every house in Old Corona until she finds him. They're not exactly friends, but they are partners. She wouldn't just leave him to rot. 

Is he still in Old Corona? The victims have all been snatched from the same area and dumped nearby, but maybe the doctor takes them from Old Corona and drives them somewhere else. Eugene lost nine and a half hours between going undercover and waking up here. That's plenty of time for her to take him somewhere else. Logically, he knows it's not likely; there’s no reason for the doctor to have such a small target zone if she herself doesn't live or at least work nearby, but it's hard not to spiral into worst case scenarios, all things considered. All things considered, Eugene’s handling things pretty goddamn well right now. 

He can see his own chest rising and falling unevenly. The sheet is still folded down, but he can't make out open wounds, just smooth bandages and tape. What the hell is under there? What did she do to him? How–

How can he see that?

He blinks, startled enough by that thought that the swell of panic abates for just a second. It's not pitch down black here, like he thought at first. To his left, there's a small strip of light glowing from under that door the kid tried to go through earlier. Eugene stares at it for a while, blinking tears out of his eyes as he tries to get his head together enough to process what that means. Dark here, in the lab. Light in the next room, behind the door. Lights off in the room where the doctor says is only a corpse, but in the next room, the lights are on. The lights are on, they're on, they wouldn't be on unless–

“Kid?” Eugene calls. He winces at the wreck of his own voice, hoarse like he was screaming even though he doesn't think he was, but he keeps going. “You in there?”

There's no response at first. Eugene takes a shaky breath and braces himself to try again, panic threatening to swallow him again at the terrifying idea of being alone down here, but then he sees the faintest hint of shadow under the door. He holds his breath, then lets it out on a shaky sigh as the doorknob twists. 

It only opens a crack, just enough for the kid’s voice to float through. “You… you're not supposed to talk.”

Eugene licks his lips, which doesn't do any good when his whole mouth feels like sand. “Why not?”

“The bodies don't talk,” the kid says. “And we don't talk to the bodies.” It's quiet enough down here that Eugene can hear him gulp. “I'll get in trouble for talking to you.”

“Well, I won't tell anyone,” Eugene says, eyes locked on the door and the little bit of light that spills out where it's open now. The thought of the kid closing it again is terrifying. He needs it to stay open. He can't be down here in the dark again. “I promised, right? I didn’t say anything to your mom.”

The door opens another half an inch. Eugene tries to force himself to breathe evenly. His head is spinning. “That's true,” the kid says hesitantly. “‘Cause you– you did talk. You said something funny, earlier.”

Eugene doesn't know what the hell qualifies as funny in this kid’s head. “I did? What did I say?”

“You said thank you,” the kid explains. “Nobody says thank you. I mean, nobody says anything,” he adds quickly. “They don't say anything at all, ‘cause they're just bodies. But they especially don't say thank you.”

Miracle of miracles, the door opens enough for the kid to poke his head out, leaning out of the room just enough to peek at Eugene with one eye. “Why did you say that?”

Eugene was trying to get the doctor on his side, but he'll take the kid. “Because I thought–” He coughs, throat too dry to speak, and groans weakly as his whole chest lights up with dizzying pain. He lays there for a second, head spinning, then musters up enough saliva to swallow and force himself to continue, “I thought maybe, if I need the surgery, then it's good your mom is doing it. So I should be grateful.”

The kid pokes his whole head out of the room now, eyes wide. “Really?”

No, it was because the woman is clearly a sadist, and Eugene was desperately trying to save his own skin, for all the good that it did him. 

“Really,” he says. 

The kid steps fully out of the room then. He's wearing plain black pajama pants and a faded red t-shirt that says Stanford Medicine next to a college crest, big enough on him that it must be his mom's. Through the open door behind him, Eugene catches a glimpse of walls full of travel posters and a small bed with galaxy-printed blankets. A child’s bedroom, built in a windowless basement directly off of a fucking torture chamber. 

God, this poor kid. 

The poor kid is looking at Eugene with something like amazement now. “No, but that's it,” he says. “That's exactly it. It's so good for her to do all the surgeries, but nobody gets that. They get mad and say she can't, but it's really important for her to do ‘em, for her research.” 

Eugene tries to nod, but his head is aching from the combination of dehydration and panic—and exhaustion and stress and drugs and probably a dozen other things—so he winces and holds himself still. “That… yeah, okay, that– kid, I'm so sorry, can I have some water?”

“Oh, yeah, I think so,” the kid says, crossing the room to turn on the lights before hurrying over to the sink. Eugene feels a quick flash of relief at being able to see that's almost immediately overwhelmed by a fresh wave of horror at what he sees: bloodstained bandages taped down over his chest. Pale, sweaty skin around it. And, what the hell, she apparently shaved his chest hair. There's something extra creepy about that. It's not that Eugene is more upset about it than the fact that she did surgery on him while he was awake, but he does put probably too much time and effort into personal grooming, and it's upsetting to see his hard work stripped away while he was asleep. 

It's also easier to focus on than the bandages. 

The kid comes back before he has too long to dwell on it. He's got gloves on again, and he's holding a plastic cup half-full of water. He slides one hand gently under Eugene’s head, then bites the tip of his tongue in concentration as he carefully tips water into his mouth. “Go slow,” he says. “You gotta take little sips.”

Eugene takes his advice, swallowing just a little at a time even though he wants to gulp it down. Tap water has never tasted better. He's panting when the kid pulls the cup away. Everything still hurts, he's still strapped to a table in a crazy woman’s basement, but hey, at least he's not thirsty. Small mercies. 

He swallows and turns to the kid. “So you said your mom… does research?”

“Yeah,” the kid says, setting the cup on the counter and pulling off his gloves with practiced ease before throwing them and the cup in a small trash can under the sink. “That's what the bodies are for, and why she has to do it here. She used to work in a hospital, but the doctors there were all bad and they didn't care about science, so they said she couldn't be a doctor anymore, but her research was too important to just stop.”

He says it in the rote way that says he's heard the same story the same way a thousand times. Bodies have been showing up in and around Old Corona for the last four years, and more and more recently over the last few months. Eugene has to imagine the doctor has been telling her son all about the bad doctors she worked with for at least that long. As far as the kid knows, that story is just fact. 

“That makes sense,” Eugene says. “They said she couldn't be a doctor? Because of her research?”

“Yeah,” the kid says, with a deep, put-upon sigh. “Which is so crazy, because she didn't even do anything bad. She didn't hurt any patients, just the bodies. But the board and the ethics committee overreacted, and they were all cowards, and so they took her license, and she can't even help her patients anymore now. It was really, really bad that they did that.”

“Yeah, that, uh, that sounds bad,” Eugene says. “How long ago did that happen? Do you remember?”

“I was pretty little,” the kid says. “I don't remember it really good, I was just three.”

Eugene nods a little. “And you're what, like seventeen or eighteen now?”

The kid blinks at him. “What? No.”

“Oh, my bad,” Eugene says. “Nineteen. Twenty? Twenty-five. Am I getting closer?”

The kid giggles the same way he did when Eugene tried to guess his name earlier. “I'm ten. I just turned ten.”

Ten? He's tiny. Eugene blinks, then covers his surprise with a low whistle. “Double digits, huh? That's a pretty big one. When was your birthday?”

“Last month,” the kid says. “On the twenty-fourth.”

“Well, happy belated birthday,” Eugene says. “Did you do anything to celebrate?”

“Yeah, it a really fun,” the kid says, and Eugene hums, only half listening. Losing her license would be a pretty obvious trigger for a woman obsessed with her work, but the murders only began four years ago. If she lost her license when the kid was a toddler, that leaves a three year gap before she apparently started collecting her own bodies. What set her off?

“Mom made cupcakes,” the kid says. “And she let me go upstairs for almost the whole day.”

Eugene frowns, knocked out of his own thoughts by that. “What? Let you go upstairs?” The kid nods, and Eugene asks hesitantly, “Are you normally not allowed to?”

“Not most of the time,” the kid shrugs. “Just when Mom says, ‘cause she's worried the neighbors will see me, and that would be bad.”

Eugene was already worried about this kid, but he really doesn't like the picture that's forming now. “Why would that be bad?”

“‘Cause no one’s supposed to know I'm here,” the kid says, tone far too reasonable for what a batshit insane thing he just said. “They might try to take me away.”

Eugene swallows. “So you just stay down here most of time?” he asks quietly. “With her– with the bodies?”

“Well,” the kid says slowly, drawing the word out, “there's not always bodies down here.”

God.

“Right,” Eugene says. “Well, that's something. Do you get to go upstairs a lot?”

“Oh, yeah,” the kid says. “Every day, at least once. Sometimes more.”

“You ever go outside?” Eugene asks. He doesn't want to risk upsetting the kid by pushing too hard on something he doesn't want to talk about, but all his curiosity about the case has been immediately forgotten in the face of a ten year old whose birthday present was getting to leave the basement for a day. A kid who was excited for that, because a full day upstairs is apparently such a rare treat. “In the backyard, or to go to school or… I don't know, the dentist or anything?”

“I'm homeschooled,” the kid says, which Eugene probably should have guessed. “And Mom does all the doctor stuff for me, so I don't need to see someone else for it.” Probably should have guessed that too.

“What about just for fun?” Eugene presses. “Just to go on a walk, or go to a park?”

“Oh, Mom took me to a playground one time,” the kid says eagerly. “Last year, she got me up one night after I went to bed, and we drove for a while to go to a different town, and she took me to a park there. We swung on the swings, and she showed me all the constellations and told me stories about them.”

Waiting until the middle of the night to let him go out, and doing it in a different town entirely to lessen the risk of being seen by someone she knows. Eugene makes himself smile. It's clearly a happy memory for the kid, and he doesn't want to ruin it by showing how horrified he is to hear about it. 

“That sounds really fun,” he says. “And you go outside here sometimes, right? We met outside.”

The kid’s smile fades. “Oh. Um, yeah. I go with Mom to help get the bodies.”

Okay, a misstep. The kid clearly doesn't enjoy that particular part of the process. Eugene hopes he doesn't enjoy any of the process, then almost hopes that he does, because the thought of this kid having nothing to look forward to but being allowed to go upstairs once a day is heartbreaking. 

“And you've got your Flynn Rider books, right?” he asks. “So you still have fun.”

The kid’s expression turns wry, but he takes the bait. Old enough to recognize an obvious change of subject, young enough to only be relieved by it. 

“Yeah, I read a lot,” he says. “I have all sorts of books, but Flynn Rider is the best one. I’ve read them all so much I have them almost memorized.”

“That's really impressive,” Eugene says. “I haven't read them in a while, but I remember they were pretty thick. I should pick ‘em up again at some point.”

The kid frowns a little. “You can't, though.”

Eugene snorts. “What, you think I don't know how to read?”

“No, but you… you're here,” the kid says with a little shrug. “You can't read them anymore, ‘cause you're on the table for now, and then you'll go away.”

Eugene can't exactly explain to the kid that there's a team of federal agents scouring the city looking for him. He can't risk that information getting back to the doctor, and the kid’s already keeping what Eugene suspects is the first secret in his life from her, that he's talking to Eugene. 

“Right,” he says. “That, uh, that makes sense.”

“I should go to bed,” the kid says uncomfortably. He's avoiding Eugene’s eye now. “I have to do some school stuff tomorrow.”

“Any chance I could have some painkillers?” Eugene asks, even though he's pretty sure he knows the answer. 

Not surprisingly, the kid shakes his head. “I can't administer medication,” he says. “I just help keep things clean, and hand Mom the scalpels and stuff. I'm not old enough to do everything yet.”

He's old enough to open a bottle of Tylenol, but Eugene just lets out a shaky sigh and nods. “All right. Thanks for the water, at least.”

“You're welcome,” the kid says, stepping around Eugene to go back to his room. He reaches out to turn off the lights as he walks past the switch, and Eugene’s heart jumps into his throat. 

“Wait!” he says, voice strangled, and the kid jumps and turns to look at him with wide eyes. “Sorry,” Eugene says. He's panting again. “I didn't mean to snap. Just… can you leave the lights on?”

The kid frowns. “Won't they keep you up?”

“No, it's fine,” Eugene says. “It's fine, I actually prefer sleeping with the lights on.”

Not true. He's got blackout curtains in his apartment, and he brings a sleep mask with him when they're on the road. There's a difference, though, between choosing to turn off the lights and being locked alone in a dark room. 

“That's not really good for you,” the kid says doubtfully. “It's healthier to sleep in the dark. You…” Eugene must make a face, because he trails off. He narrows his eyes consideringly, then they go wide and his mouth forms a surprised little o as he realizes something. “Are you scared of the dark?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Eugene admits with a pained smile, and the kid nods. 

“That's okay, I get it. One second, I have something you can use.”

He hurries into his room, then comes back out a moment later and plugs something into an outlet over the counter: a small nightlight shaped like a glowing blue mushroom. “I don't need this, really,” he says to Eugene over his shoulder, “‘cause I have star stickers on my ceiling. So you can use it for now, instead.”

Eugene could cry from pure relief. “Thanks, buddy. I really–” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “I really appreciate it.”

The kid nods and flashes Eugene a quick smile before turning the overhead light off and hurrying back towards his room. He hesitates before stepping through the door, one hand on the knob. “Um. Goodnight, Flynn.”

“Goodnight, kid,” Eugene says tiredly. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open now that he's not focusing on the kid; he's more exhausted and in more pain than he can remember being in his life, and all he wants to do is close his eyes and try to ignore it for a while. 

The kid waits a moment longer though, chewing on his lip before he says cautiously, “Um, don't tell my mom, but. If you wanted to call me– my name's Varian. Not kid.”

“Varian?” Eugene asks, and Varian nods. “It's nice to officially meet you, Varian.”

“You, too,” Varian says. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Eugene says, and Varian slips into his room and closes the door behind him. Eugene hears him shuffling around for a moment, and then the lights shut off, leaving him alone in the not-quite dark. He rolls his head to the side so he can see the nightlight, and he stares at the glowing mushroom until he can't keep his eyes open any longer. 

Opening them again is a mistake. It's impossible to tell how much time has passed, but he wakes up to the lights flicking on overhead. The nightlight is gone. The doctor is back. Once again, she ignores ignores everything Eugene tries to say to say to her. Varian is there too, wearing gloves again and getting things set up for another surgery. The only difference between yesterday morning and today is that when his mom is washing her hands again, Varian wiggles his fingers at Eugene behind her back in a tiny wave—Eugene sticks his tongue out at him, and Varian eyes crinkle as he grins, delighted—and that this time, the doctor cuts into his stomach instead of his chest. 

He doesn't pass out as quickly this time, but he wakes up sooner. He's alone in the lab again, but the lights are still on. He's too dazed to panic again; he stares blankly at the ceiling and wonders what the hell he must have done to piss Cass off, that she's taking so long to find him. He knows she's coming, she has to be coming, but good god, is she taking her sweet time about it. 

That's probably not fair to her and the team, but Eugene can't really find it in himself to be charitable right now, all things considered. She didn't even want him to try to draw out the killer. She said it was a bad idea. Eugene pointed out that it was the only idea they had, and she finally caved. 

Damn, maybe he doesn't want her to get here too fast. If it means admitting to her that she was right, he'd almost rather stay. 

Even in his own head, the joke falls flat. 

He doesn't know how long he lays there. It's hard enough to pull two coherent thoughts together, let alone keep track of time when he can't see a clock or the sun. His head feels fuzzy, and his chest and stomach hurt. Even if there were a way to tell time, it's hard to focus on anything but how much pain he's in. 

Eventually, the door to his left opens, and Eugene blinks and turns his head. Varian looks startled to see him for a moment, but he smiles when he meets Eugene’s eyes. “Oh! You're awake!”

“Yup,” Eugene says hoarsely. “G’morning.”

“It's afternoon,” Varian says. “But hi. I didn't know you were awake; I would have come out sooner. Are you thirsty again?”

Eugene doesn't have the energy to be upbeat and make jokes with the kid like he did before. He just closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah.”

Varian gets him more water, once again putting on gloves before he touches Eugene, then carefully throws them and the cup away. He hesitates for a second, eyeing Eugene thoughtfully, then drags over a small metal stool and sets it next to the table so he can sit by Eugene. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You seem… I don't know. Tired.”

Eugene stares blankly at him, not sure how to begin answering that. He tries to remind himself that Varian doesn't know better, but it's exhaustion more than sympathy that keeps him from snapping when he finally says, “I'm a little sore.”

“I'm sorry,” Varian says, and he does at least look genuinely apologetic. “Mom has to keep doing her research. She has to. It's so important.”

“Right,” Eugene says. “Okay.”

“We, um, Mom didn't give you as much medicine this time,” Varian says. “So you didn't sleep as long. So I thought maybe we could… hang out?”

He shrugs, and his voice goes even squeakier as it spirals into an uncertain question. He clasps his hands between his knees, fingers twisting nervously together, and all of Eugene’s anger fizzles out. 

Varian has lived in this basement for years; Eugene is probably the closest thing he's ever had to a friend. He's just as much a victim as Eugene, even if only one of them understands that. And he looks so hopeful at the idea of having someone to talk to, ducking his head and peeking at Eugene through his bangs. 

Eugene takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It only hurts a little to smile. “Yeah, we can hang out,” he says. “I mean, I'm pretty busy, but I'm sure I can find some time for you.”

“Oh.” Varian’s face falls. “I can come back later, if you're busy now.”

Eugene huffs a laugh, then sighs when Varian just looks more disappointed. “I'm kidding, buddy,” he says gently. “I got nothing but time. I'd love to hang out.”

Varian’s whole face lights up, and he sits up straighter. “Really? Awesome! What, uh, what do you wanna talk about?”

“Why don't you pick?” Eugene suggests, because he doesn't know how to begin guessing what would be a safe topic for the kid. “Is there anything you had in mind?”

“Have you ever been on a roller coaster?” Varian asks immediately. Eugene made the right choice letting him pick; it's obvious the kid already had the question in mind he wanted to ask. 

“Yeah, I have,” Eugene says. Varian almost wiggles in place with excitement. 

“Really? Are they fun?”

“They're so much fun,” Eugene says. “Have you ever… okay, you know that feeling when you miss a step, and it feels like you're falling for just a second?” Varian nods, eyes wide. “It's kind of like that, but your know the whole time that you're actually safe. So it's just exciting, not scary.”

“Wow,” Varian breathes. “And they're really fast?”

“The fastest,” Eugene assures him. “They're so fast that on the ones where you go upside down, sometimes you don't even realize it at first. It doesn't even feel like you're upside down, it just looks like the ground is suddenly above you.”

“That's the coolest,” Varian says, shaking his head in awe. “Okay, um, what about water parks? Have you been to a water park before?”

“Just one,” Eugene says. “I like roller coasters better than water slides.”

“How come?” Varian asks. He looks fascinated. “Are they more fun?”

“They're both fun, I just don't like getting chlorine in my hair,” Eugene admits with a dry smile. “It makes it smell weird.”

Varian nods understandingly. “I don't like the smell of some of the cleaning supplies Mom uses. I wouldn't want that in my hair, either. That makes sense.” He opens his mouth, then pauses, clearly mulling something over. “Do you want to ask me questions, too?” he asks. “I don't know a lot about roller coasters and stuff, but I can talk about other things, if you don't want to just answer.”

Watching this kid fumble his way through how to have a conversation hurts almost as bad as Eugene’s torn-open chest. “Yeah, I've got a few,” he says. “But you don't have to answer them if you don't want. I don't mind just talking about other things.”

“Okay,” Varian says, drawing the word out. “What do you want to ask?”

Eugene pauses as he tries to figure out a delicate way to ask. “Earlier,” he says slowly, “you said– okay, you know I won't tell your mom whatever you say, right?” he asks. “I promised, and I always try to keep my promises.”

“Okay,” Varian says again. His eyes are narrowed suspiciously. 

“I was just wondering why you're not allowed to talk to the bodies,” Eugene says, trying to sound casual. “I get that they're probably not all super chatty, but I mean, I like to think I'm fun to talk to.”

“Oh, that.” Varian makes a face. “That's a rule just to help me, mostly. ‘Cause when I was little I would get upset when people stopped talking, so Mom said I have to remember that they're really just bodies the whole time even if they don't act like it, and that way it's not sad anymore.”

Jesus. 

“Well, I'm glad you're talking to me,” Eugene says, and Varian smiles shyly. 

“I'm glad, too. You're really nice. Can I ask you a question now?”

Eugene makes himself as comfortable as he can, which isn't very. “Shoot.”

By a question, Varian apparently meant dozens. He's nearly bursting with them, dying with curiosity about things he obviously isn't willing—or maybe isn't allowed—to ask his mom about. Eugene answers them as best as he can and tries to get as much information as he can from Varian without making him suspicious. 

It's just him and his mom. He doesn't help with the surgeries except for handing his mom her tools, and he only started helping collect the bodies two years ago. He's never talked to the neighbors. No one knows he lives here except his mom. He doesn't go outside without her, he only goes upstairs when she says it's okay, and he has to stay away from the windows so no one sees him. 

He asks Eugene about roller coasters and grocery stores and going to school. He asks about what other books he likes. He asks if Eugene has a dog, and when Eugene says no, he asks what kind he would want if he had one. Varian, it turns out, has very strong opinions about dog breeds, despite the fact that he also does have one; his mom bought that leash and collar just to help get the bodies. 

All Eugene can think about, the entire time they talk, is that Varian is just a kid. He's far too casual about where they are and the fact that they're both trapped, far too insistent about the importance of his mom’s nebulous “research,” even though he hasn't been able to explain what it is she's researching. If Eugene has to guess, he'd say the doctor probably doesn't know, either. 

He has surgery again that evening. The doctor ignores him. Varian doesn't look excited to help out anymore, shoulders hunched and tiny face pinched with guilt as he helps his mom get set up. He winces when Eugene groans weakly at the first incision. 

He told Eugene he's never talked to the bodies before. This the first time he's had to help cut up someone he thinks of as a friend. 

When Eugene wakes up later, it's late enough that Varian must have gone to sleep already. There's no light coming from under his door, but he left the nightlight plugged in for Eugene. Eugene promises himself that as soon as he gets out of here (which he is, he is, Cass will be here any second), he's buying enough nightlights to plug into every outlet in his apartment. 

He wakes up. He sleeps. He gives up on talking to the doctor before surgeries. He talks to Varian in between them instead, trying to distract himself from a pain that's just become constant by chatting with a kid who can count on both hands the number of times he's been outside. 

Varian's not exactly a great conversationalist, but he is lonely in a way that hurts to see and desperate to talk to someone. He tells Eugene that he loves his mom and he doesn't mind staying down here, because it keeps him safe. He says he knows how important her research is, and he's proud to help. He says she would never hurt him, and he gets mad at Eugene for asking. 

He tells Eugene he's been down here for four days. Eugene thought it was longer. 

Cass and the team are right behind him. Cass and the team have to be right behind him, and they'll get Eugene to a hospital with real doctors and Varian to a family who won't keep him locked up in a bloody basement. As time becomes harder and harder to keep track of, as it becomes harder to keep his mind in one piece while the doctor tears the rest of him to shreds, he clings to that fact with everything he has. Cass is coming. The two of them might say they hate each other, might do everything they can to get on each other's nerves and make each other's lives harder, but she would never leave him here. She might find him as a pile of guts on a table, but she'll find him. 

His fourth afternoon and seventh surgery there, after the doctor has given him his shot and Eugene is doing what he can to distract himself before the inevitable, she picks up the scalpel, then pauses. 

“Sweetheart, do you want to do this one?” she asks. 

Eugene can't open his eyes, but he hears Varian sick in a sharp breath. “Me?” he asks. 

“Who else?” the doctor laughs. “You're a big boy now. You're old enough to start helping with the surgeries.”

“I, um, I don't know,” Varian says nervously. “I don't think I'm ready.”

“I think you are,” the doctor says encouragingly. “I know you want to be a doctor when you grow up, right? You can start practicing now.”

“But– but on this body?” Varian asks. “Can I practice on the next body, instead?”

“Why not this body?” the doctor asks. “Why a different one?”

“Well, ‘cause– just ‘cause–” Varian is clearly fumbling for an excuse that's not because I know this one. Eugene's heart races as he listens to the kid scramble for an explanation, finally settling on, “You've already done so much on it, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to get in the way of your stitches.”

“That’s so sweet of you to look out for my work,” the doctor says fondly, and Varian lets out a small, nervous laugh. “How about we pick a different spot, then? Just to let you get used to the knife. Somewhere it won't be in the way of what I'm doing. Right here, maybe.”

She presses one finger to Eugene’s right arm, tapping a spot on his bicep. He hears a clatter of metal, the now-familiar sound of a scalpel being lifted from the tray, and then shuffling footsteps until Varian speaks from right by Eugene’s shoulder. “Do I have to?” he asks. His voice is shaking. “Mom, do I have to?”

There's just a hint of annoyance creeping into the doctor’s voice, but it's enough that Eugene can feel Varian flinch next to him. “You don't have to,” she says, “but good boys do as they're told. Aren't you my good boy?”

Varian gulps back a sob. “Yes, ma'am.”

He's breathing unevenly as he presses the edge of the knife to Eugene’s arm. Eugene wants to tell him that it's okay, that he's not mad, that it's not Varian’s fault, but he can't even open his mouth. All he can do is sigh shakily as Varian pulls the knife down, slicing cleanly through his skin. 

“Making the first incision,” he says. 

His hands aren't as sure as his mom’s. The knife doesn't go as deep, but it shakes more, leaving a ragged, uneven line across Eugene's upper arm. At his mom’s direction, he goes over the spot a few more times, and Eugene nearly passes out when he feels the doctor reach over Varian to press her fingers into the wound, pointing out the muscles to Varian, mindless of the blood pooling past her fingers and dripping onto the floor, or the way Varian is quietly crying while she talks. 

There's a drain under the table, Eugene realizes distantly. He's never been awake long enough to hear it gurgle as it catches his blood. 

“Mommy?” Varian asks when she finally pauses. His voice is thick with tears. “C-can I– can I please go to my room?”

The doctor sighs. “Yeah, baby. It's okay, I know your first surgery can be stressful. Go wash up and lie down for a little while, okay?”

“Yes-ma'am-thank-you,” Varian says in a rush, then scrambles towards the sink. The doctor busies herself with quickly stitching and bandaging Eugene’s shoulder while Varian washes his hands, humming something under her breath. Eugene’s arm is apparently not useful to whatever it is she thinks she's researching.

Varian doesn't say anything else as he leaves, just slips silently into his room and closes the door behind him. The doctor sighs, then picks up the recorder and the scalpel, describing with detached efficiency how she's reentering the cadaver's abdomen to examine her findings from that morning. 

Varian’s room isn't soundproofed. Eugene can hear him crying through the door until he finally, thankfully, passes out again. 

He's out for a while this time. The pain is familiar by now. The strange, hollow feeling in his gut is new. The lights are on again. Day time, or so he's been told. It's always a relief not to wake up in the dark, but it makes it harder to tell if Varian is down here. 

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. 

“Varian?” he calls softly, turning to look at the door. “You in there, kiddo?”

“No,” Varian calls back. “Go away.”

“No can do, buddy,” Eugene says, almost amused. “Kinda stuck here.”

Varian opens the door and pokes his head out, lip wobbling even as he glares at Eugene. His eyes are red, and his face is blotchy. He must have been crying off and on since yesterday. “I'm not talking to you anymore,” he says. He sounds stuffy. “Mom was right. It's too sad, I shouldn't have.”

“It's okay,” Eugene says. “I'm not mad, buddy. I'm sorry, I know that had to be hard.”

Varian swallows. “I wasn't even mature about it,” he says, voice breaking. “I'm supposed to be grown up and help in the morgue, and I couldn't even do a little surgery.”

“I think you were really brave,” Eugene tells him sincerely. “Just like Flynn. He had to do scary things sometimes, right? It's okay to be upset about them.”

Varian sniffles and wipes at his eyes. “But I shouldn't be,” he says. “I shouldn't be scared of it, it's my job.”

There's not really a polite way to tell Varian that kids his age aren't supposed to have jobs involving dead bodies. When Eugene was ten, his neighbor gave him twenty dollars to take her yard. He wasn't expected to assist in torture sessions disguised as surgery. 

“Your first day on the job is always scary,” he says. "It's okay to be nervous about that."

Varian shrugs. "But you're my friend, too," he says in a tiny voice. "And I cut you."

"I know you didn't want to," Eugene says softly. "We can still be friends. Like Lance and Flynn in the book, right? They get in fights sometimes, and they're still a team."

"I do like Lance and Flynn," Varian admits. "Are we a team, too? You and me?"

Why not. "Absolutely," Eugene promises. "The best team ever. What's a good team name for us?"

"Team..." Varian cocks his head to the side thoughtfully, sadness forgotten in the face of coming up with a cool name. "Awesome! We should be Team Awesome."

"Team Awesome works," Eugene says, and he almost manages a laugh. "And it makes sense, 'cause you're awesome at all kinds of things. You're awesome at remembering things about your books, and at getting me water after surgery.”

Varian sniffles again, but he's smiling now. “Are you saying you want some water?”

“I wasn't saying that, but yes, please,” Eugene says, and Varian nods and goes to put on his gloves and get Eugene a cup. Tap water is quickly losing appeal, but his mouth tastes like something died in it, and it's easier to focus on washing that out than the wreck that is everything between his shoulders and hips. 

“Time s’it?” he asks when Varian pulls the cup away. 

“It's twelve,” Varian says. “I was having lunch in my room.”

Eugene blinks. “I slept that much?”

“You woke up a little bit earlier,” Varian says. “But Mom did another surgery, and you fell back asleep. You didn't say anything.”

Eugene stares at him, trying to process that. So out of it he doesn't even remember waking up between surgeries. In too much pain to process the difference between one stabbing and two. 

“Right,” he says, voice gone hoarse despite the water he just drank. “Did you have to help with that one too?”

“Just the usual stuff I do,” Varian says. “And I helped pack your kidney.”

The world freezes around Eugene. “My what?”

“She took your kidney out this morning,” Varian says blithely. “For someone who's sick to have it.”

Part of Eugene, the part that's been trying to keep working the case the last five days, notes that that answers their question about the victims’ missing organs. They hadn't been sure if the killer was removing them as souvenirs, as a forensic countermeasure, or to sell on the black market. Looks like it was the third one. That helps explain how she's able to afford this setup, too. It's a lucrative trade, and would certainly keep her in business, especially at the rate she's going. 

The rest of him shrinks back from the thought that she took his goddamn kidney. He wouldn't say he's gotten used to the knives and scalpels, but there's something different between that and her taking parts out of him and selling them to strangers. 

There's also the fact that if she's already started harvesting his organs, she can't be planning to hold onto him for much longer. 

“Flynn? Can you hear me?”

He blinks and sees Varian leaning over him, looking concerned. Eugene tries to get his breathing under control. He doesn't want to scare the kid. Eugene's a trained federal agent who's spent the last half a decade hunting down serial killers. He's seen worse. He's seen so much worse. This is barely anything. What's a kidney, anyways? He's got another one. 

“Yeah,” he wheezes. “I hear you.”

Varian bites his lip. “I'm sorry about your arm.”

His…? Oh. 

“I'll be honest, kid,” Eugene says, “I already forgot about that.”

“Oh.” Varian rubs awkwardly at his own arm, over the same spot where he cut Eugene yesterday. “I thought maybe you'd be mad.”

“Not at you,” Eugene says quietly, still trying to wrangle his panic into something less overwhelming. “You were just doing what your mom said. I get it.”

Varian nods. “I, um. Mom’s not here right now, ‘cause she had to drop off the delivery. I'm not supposed to eat out here, but maybe I could today? I have my lunch in my room. She's not here, and if I clean it up good, she won't know.”

“Yeah, buddy, that's fine,” Eugene says. “I won't say anything.”

“I know,” Varian assures him. “You're good at promises. Okay, I'll be right back.”

He hurries into his room, then comes out a moment later holding a half-eaten plate of food. All that's left is the crust of a sandwich, a few apple slices, and a scoop of peanut butter. Varian climbs onto the stool again, plate balanced on his lap. 

Eugene didn't think he had it in him to feel hunger at this point, but his stomach is furiously reminding him of how little actual food the doctor’s let him have since he's been here. “Hey, kid,” he says, trying not to stare too hard at Varian’s apple slices. “Think I could have a bite of one of those?”

Varian blinks down at his plate. “Oh, yeah, that's– wait, no. Sorry, you can't. You have surgery again tonight, so no solid food before then.”

Eugene’s heart sinks through the floor. “Surgery again?” he asks, and Varian nods. He looks apologetic, but Eugene couldn't say if that's for the apple slices or the thought of Eugene getting cut open again. “Are you gonna have to help again?”

“Not this time,” Varian says, ducking his head. “‘Cause I got– ‘cause I didn't like it, yesterday,” he adds, subdued. “So Mom said I don't have to do it again for a while, if I'm not ready.” 

Eugene swallows. He hates to pry, but it's easier to focus on the kid than to let himself dwell on what's coming later today. “Was she upset about that?”

“She was really disappointed,” Varian says in a small voice. “She didn't say it, but I could tell. I'm supposed to be her lab assistant, and I couldn't even help a little bit with the actual surgery.”

“You do a lot already, though,” Eugene says. “More than most kids your age, right? You keep it clean down here, and you keep me company so I don't get bored.”

“But I'm not even supposed to keep you company,” Varian protests. “I shouldn’t… Mom would be so mad if she found out, I…” He sniffles, then wipes quickly at his eyes. “You haven't told her, have you?”

“I haven't told her,” Eugene promises. “She doesn't really listen when I talk, anyways. Besides, I promised.”

“Right,” Varian says, dragging another apple slice through the peanut butter on his plate. “Just ‘cause it's not mature, you know? She wouldn't get mad mad, anyways. She doesn't get mad at me, really. She'd just maybe take my books or not let me see my dad for a while.”

Eugene's mind grinds to a halt. “Your dad?” he repeats. “You have a dad?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. He glances at the door to his room, then looks shyly back at Eugene. “I don't normally show him to people, but do you want to meet him?”

Show him, not introduce him. Eugene hopes his smile looks less strained than it feels. “Yeah, if you want me to,” he says. “You don't have to.”

“Okay, I'll be right back,” Varian says, setting his plate down and scampering towards the door. “Gimme a second.”

He slips into his room and closes the door behind him, the comes back out a moment later with his his hands held carefully behind his back. 

“I've never showed him to anyone but mom before,” he says. “You gotta be polite, okay?”

“Cross my heart,” Eugene promises, then crosses his eyes, since he can't exactly move his hands. Varian giggles, which was the point, then pulls his hands out from behind his back. 

Because Eugene is an idiot, he was expecting an urn. Considering how the last few days have gone, he really shouldn't be so surprised when Varian holds up a small jar full of viscous, yellow-brown liquid and three human teeth. 

“What the fuck,” Eugene breathes, and Varian frowns. 

“That's a bad word,” he says disapprovingly. “You said you'd be polite. You crossed your heart.”

“Right,” Eugene says, then swallows thickly. “Right, sorry, I'm… uh. Hi, Mr. Varian’s dad.”

“Look, see, if you shake it–” Varian does, and the teeth bump against each other as they bob around the jar. “They rattle a little bit, and it's like he's talking. Hi, Flynn,” he says, dropping his voice into a low rumble, or as close to one as he can manage. “It's very nice to meet you.”

It would be cute, if it weren’t horrifying. Eugene is abruptly glad Varian wouldn't give him those apple slices; he'd definitely be throwing them up now. And here he was thinking Varian was surprisingly well adjusted. 

“It's nice to meet you too,” Eugene says hesitantly. “Varian, is that– is that all you have of your dad?”

“Yeah,” Varian says, unbothered. “Mom said I could keep some pieces when we moved, and I picked his teeth, ‘cause they're bones so they're really sturdy, but also they're small, so they don't take up a lot of space. Mom said that was a really good choice,” he adds proudly. Eugene nods a little, trying not to show how disturbed he is. 

“Right,” he says. “Uh, when did… can I ask when your dad died?”

Varian blinks at him. “My dad didn't die.”

Eugene blinks back. “Is he still alive?”

He's prepared to be even more horrified, but Varian just looks confused. “No? He's in the jar, see?”

He rattles the teeth again. Not dead, not alive, then–

Oh, Jesus Christ. 

“Yeah, sorry, that's my bad,” Eugene says, trying again for a smile. “I meant, when did your dad become a body?”

“Ohh,” Varian says. “When I was six. Right before we moved to this house.”

And he's ten now. Four years in this basement, with only his mother and her victims for company. And, apparently, a jar of teeth that Varian doesn't understand came from a corpse. 

“Do you miss your dad?” Eugene asks softly, and Varian shifts his weight from one foot to the other, expression growing nervous. 

“No, cause he's still here. I keep him in my room. But, um.” He shrugs a little. “I guess I miss when he talked to me, and I didn't have to do his voice for him. He read Flynn Rider to me when I was little, and he did different voices for all the characters. His Lance Strongbow was really funny. But, but I read to him now, instead,” he says quickly, expression brightening. “It's like taking turns.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Eugene says, and his heart figures out a way to break all over again for this kid. “Does your mom ever talk about your dad with you?”

“Mom doesn't talk about the bodies,” Varian says immediately. “She knows I have him, but she doesn't talk to him a whole lot, or like me to talk about him. It's not very grownup, is why.”

“Well, you're not a grown up,” Eugene points out. “Ten is pretty old, but I don't think you need to be an adult just yet.”

Varian frowns down at the jar, holding it carefully in both hands. All he has left of his dad, and he doesn't even understand why, or is at least working as hard as he can not to admit it. It has to be the most precious thing he owns. 

“I guess,” he says. “I don't know.”

“You know,” Eugene says hesitantly, “if you wanted to talk about your dad to me, I wouldn’t mind that. And I won't tell your mom. You don't have to, but if you want to.”

Varian peeks up at Eugene, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Eugene says. “Just if you want to. I don't want it to make you sad.”

“It won't,” Varian says eagerly. “It won't, I like talking about him, just Mom doesn't like to and I'm not allowed to talk to the bodies normally so I don't have anyone to talk about him to. Okay, um. So first, he was really tall. Like…” He transfers the jar to one hand and holds his other up over his head, then goes up on his tiptoes for an extra few inches. “Like that tall. Taller, even. And he was super strong. He'd put me on his shoulders all the time. And he read me my first Flynn Rider books, because he liked them growing up and thought I would like them. And we'd go outside, and he'd hold my hands and spin me around so fast my feet didn't even touch the ground and it was like I was flying.”

“Wow,” Eugene says, trying to hide how bad he wants to cry, hearing Varian describe what sounds like the last person who really loved him. “That's really cool. He sounds awesome.”

“Yeah, he was the best,” Varian says. “Is the best, I mean. But he was more fun when he had his whole body, still.”

“That makes sense,” Eugene says. “Did… Your mom made him a body, right?” Varian’s smile fades, but he nods. “Do you know why?”

Varian frowns at the jar in his hands again. “For her research, I guess. ‘Cause it's so important.”

If his dad died four years ago, that would make him the doctor’s first murder. That explains the gap between losing her license and starting killing; Eugene has to imagine there would some tension in a marriage if one of them was caught experimenting on corpses. Something apparently broke that tension, and the doctor snapped. 

“Yeah, I know it is,” Eugene says softly. “Thanks for letting me meet your dad, kid. He sounds really great.”

The smile is back, bright and relieved that Eugene has moved away from a topic Varian clearly doesn't want to think about. Eugene didn't miss the way the kid switches between past and present tense when talking about his dad. Somewhere in Varian’s head, he knows his dad is gone, even if he's not ready to admit it. “Thanks for being nice about him. I think you guys would have been friends.”

“I think so too,” Eugene says. “I would have wanted to be, at least.”

“He would have liked you,” Varian assures him. “You’re Flynn Rider, and that's his favorite. But I'm gonna put him back in my room, okay? I don't want him to get lost.”

“Yeah, that's fine,” Eugene says. “I'll wait here.”

Varian comes back a moment later, jar apparently safely put away, and makes himself comfortable back on the stool, finishing up his lunch. Eugene doesn't ask for more. His appetite is pretty thoroughly gone after seeing those teeth. 

“Mom will be back in a few hours,” Varian tells him. “And I get to have upstairs time when she gets here. She doesn't like to leave me home alone for too long, so whenever she's gone for a while, I get to go upstairs for longer when she gets back.”

“That'll be fun,” Eugene says. “What are you gonna do?”

“I have to stay away from the front of the house,” Varian says around a mouthful of apple. “‘Cause even when the curtains are closed, someone might see me. But there's just trees behind the house, and if I look out the window in Mom’s room I can look at them. One time I saw a baby deer. It was really cute, they have spots on their backs.”

“That's cool,” Eugene says. He's too exhausted to keep up his side of the conversation, but Varian is content to keep talking about his big plans for what he's going to do upstairs. Eugene oohs and awws at the right moments, trying as hard as he can to focus on Varian, and not what's going to happen tonight. The doctor already took a kidney; Eugene can't imagine she'll be content to go back to aimlessly poking around again. 

He doesn't mean to fall asleep on the kid, but he doesn't have the energy to keep himself up. He blinks awake for a moment when the doctor comes downstairs, telling Varian cheerfully that she's drawn all the curtains so it's safe for upstairs time. Eugene watches as Varian skips out the door and up the stairs, then he closes his eyes again. 

It's probably a good thing to sleep. God knows he needs his rest. It's definitely not a sign that his body is giving out on him. 

He doesn't know how long he's been lying there when hears the latch click, and he squeezes his eyes shut as panic floods his system. Already? No, no, Varian said it wasn't until tonight, it can't be tonight already, he can't do it again so soon–

The door opens and shuts, and bare feet pad across the room. “Flynn? Are you awake?”

Eugene lets out a shaky sigh and forces his eyes open. Varian’s holding an unopened juicebox in one hand and a bag of trail mix in the other, peering at Eugene curiously as he walks over to the slab. 

“Hey, kid,” Eugene rasps. “I thought it was upstairs time?”

“Mom said I had to come down here already,” Varian says glumly, setting his juice and snack on the counter before dragging the stool over to sit by Eugene’s head. “There's people in the neighborhood, so I have to stay out of the way.”

Eugene frowns. His head feels like it's full of hot sand, sifting through his fingers every time he tries to hold onto a thought. “Aren't there always people in the neighborhood?”

“It's not the neighbors,” Varian says. He drops his elbows on the edge of the slab and rests his chin in his hands. Eugene can't see it from this angle, but he can hear a soft thunk, thunk, thunk of the stool shifting back and forth on uneven legs as Varian kicks his feet. “It's people in suits. They're knocking on all the doors on the street. I saw through the window.”

Eugene’s mouth goes dry. “People in suits?” he repeats, and Varian nods. “How many people?”

“Just three, I think,” Varian says. “I only saw two men and a woman.”

Cass. 

The relief threatens to crush him, only to be immediately overwhelmed by a new wave of panic as he looks at the kid sitting next to him, disconcertingly comfortable in a blood-stained laboratory and with no idea of the trouble heading their way. He brought a juicebox down here. It's such a tiny detail for Eugene to focus on, but his eyes keep drifting past Varian to look at where he left his snacks on the counter for later. 

He's just a little kid. And Eugene, depending on who you ask, has already been dead for five days. 

“Varian, listen,” he says. “Listen to me, this is important, okay?”

Varian’s eyes go wide at Eugene’s tone, suddenly serious after days of forcing himself to be friendly and lighthearted. “Okay.”

“Those are my friends,” Eugene says, licking his lips. It doesn't do anything to help. “That's Cass and Stan and Pete. They're my friends, they're here looking for me.”

“But you're–” Varian hesitates, then looks nervously over his shoulder. “I should tell mom.”

“No, no, Varian, listen,” Eugene says. “You need to get somewhere safe. Does your door have a lock on it?”

Varian’s eyes are huge when he looks back at Eugene. “No. Why? Are your friends dangerous?”

“No,” Eugene says. “They're not, I promise. Not to you. But it's gonna get really loud and scary soon, and I don't want you to get hurt by accident. Do you have somewhere you can hide?”

“Upstairs,” Varian says. He sits back and twists his fingers together anxiously as his eyes flit between Eugene and the door. “Under the stairs, I have– why’s it gonna be scary?”

Under the stairs, Eugene thinks, doing his best to lock that information away. “Your mom has been doing some mean things to people,” he says, and he wanted to break that more gently, wanted Varian to be able to come to that conclusion on his own, because–

“No, she hasn't,” Varian says, frowning. “She's a doctor. She helps people.”

“I know,” Eugene says, gritting his teeth. He's nearly choking on the swell of panic and anger, the desperate need for Varian to understand how much danger he's in, how much danger he's been in his whole life. He's a kid. Cass will be coming in guns blazing any second, and the doctor’s bound to fight back. She's used her son as a lure and a lab assistant for years; Eugene wouldn't put it past her to add body shield to the list. 

“I know she told you that,” he says. “But come on, kiddo, look around. Look at me. Does this look like helping?”

Varian’s expression is torn. “But… but you're a body…?” he says unsurely, voice twisting up in a question. 

“I'm not,” Eugene says, voice cracking. “I like Flynn Rider, right? Bodies don't like books, Varian. Bodies don't tell you about roller coasters. I'm not a body. I'm alive, and your mom has been hurting me.”

“No,” Varian says. “You're not, she wouldn't, that's–”

“I just want you to be safe,” Eugene interrupts. “I promise, all I want is for you to be safe. My friends will help you, you just need to stay out of the way. ”

“I am safe,” Varian snaps, but he doesn't look convinced. He just looks scared. “Mom says as long as I'm out of the way I'm safe, she can keep me safe–”

Safe kids get to go outside. Safe kids have friends, safe kids know their neighbors, safe kids have dads that aren't three teeth in a jar. 

“Can she?” Eugene asks, but before Varian can answer, the door opens again, and the doctor storms into the room after her son. She doesn't close the door behind her. Her normally placid expression is twisted with rage, and she meets Eugene’s eyes for the first time as she crosses the room towards him. 

She's got a gun. Eugene's eyes lock on it instantly, flicking between that and her face as she steps up to the table and Varian scrambles out of his stool to get out of the way. He can't see details, can't make out what it is, if the safety’s on, how likely it is to go off and hit one of them. What he can see, from the way she's visibly trembling as she grabs his shoulder, is that she's cracking. 

Eugene grunts as she presses him down into the table like there was any chance of him getting up. “Do you want to tell me,” she snarls, fingers digging into his shoulder, “why there are federal fucking agents in the neighborhood?”

Eugene is a trained agent with years of experience in the field. He's too smart and too experienced to mouth off at the woman holding a loaded gun, especially while there's a child in the room. 

But he's also been strapped to this table for days on end while she slices into him over and over, and rescue is on the way. Eugene smiles with all his teeth. 

“You never wondered why I didn't have an ID on me?” he croaks. “You can't carry your badge on you when you're undercover.”

Her jaw drops in shock, but Eugene only has about a half a second to feel triumph before she cracks the gun across the side of his head. He shouts in pain as his head snaps to the side, and through the ringing in his ears he hears Varian cry out. 

“Mom, what are you–”

“Not now, sweetheart,” the doctor says, and Eugene blinks the stars out of his eyes to see her staring down at him with wide, unblinking eyes, lip curled up in a sneer. “Mommy’s talking to our guest.”

Eugene can't pull his eyes away from her, but he hears Varian shuffling nervously off to the side. He can almost hear the kid wringing his hands. “But you– you're not supposed to talk to the bodies,” he says. “Mom, you're not supposed to.”

“That's a rule for you, baby, that's not a rule for me,” she says, still staring daggers down at Eugene. “I need to have a few words with this one.” She does cut her eyes over to the side then, and when Eugene risks a quick look in the same direction, he sees Varian standing with his back pressed up against the counters, twisting his fingers nervously together and biting his lip so hard it’s turned white. “Besides,” the doctor says, “you haven't been following that rule either, have you?”

Varian goes impossibly paler. “Mom, I–”

“I'm not mad,” the doctor sighs, letting go of Eugene so she can walk over to Varian. “I'm just disappointed.”

Varian's expression crumples, and he hunches his shoulders. From the look on his face, she might as well have stabbed him in the gut. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, baby, I know,” the doctor coos, stroking his hair back so she can kiss his forehead. “I know how much you want to be good. You don't have to try for much longer, okay? Just be my good boy for a few more minutes, and you'll be okay.”

Varian looks up at her, eyes wide and trusting, and she keeps her hand on his head. Her other hand still has the gun, she's still holding the gun, the hell does she mean just a few more minutes when she's still holding the gun–

“Doc,” Eugene says, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “Just let him go, and I can get you help. You don't need to hurt him.”

The doctor has the nerve to look offended. “Hurt him?” she asks. “I would never hurt him. God, see, this is the problem.” She turns back to Eugene, which at least gets her attention off Varian, but she's also gesturing with the gun while she talks like she's forgotten she's holding it. “You don't get it,” she snaps. “Nobody gets it. Donnie didn't get it, Quirin didn't get it. He tried to take my son from me! All I've ever done is try to help people, to make a better world for Varian to grow up in, but everyone who should have supported me tried to stop me, over and over and over.”

She's getting louder as she goes on. Whatever composure she's been holding onto this whole time, she's lost her grip on now. With the feds almost at her door, she has to realize she can't get away with this anymore. Eugene can't tell what to focus on. The doctor’s face as she rants, the gun in her hand, the ten year old kid standing paralyzed a few feet away. 

Cass and the team are on their way. Eugene just needs to stall for a few more minutes, but he's not running at full capacity and the mounting panic is making that much harder to think. 

“I'm so close to a breakthrough,” the doctor says, stopping next to the table and staring down at Eugene again. “Do you understand that? My work is too important to just give up. I have to keep going.”

“I believe you,” Eugene says, voice as even as he can make it. “I understand, I swear I do. I don't want this to go to waste either. I can help you, doc. You let me and Varian go, and I'll personally ensure you can continue your research. A full lab, assistants, all the–” He can't tell if she's making a face or if his vision is just swimming. He swallows back nausea and forces himself to continue, “All the cadavers you need. You can publish your studies. We'll see about getting your MD reinstated.”

For a moment, the doctor looks almost hungry, then her expression hardens. “Bullshit,” she snaps, and Eugene winces when she slams the gun on the edge of the table with a resounding clang. The movement and the rattling of the cart pull at his stitches in a way that nearly makes him black out again, but he doesn't miss the barely-stifled whimper from Varian. “Do you think I'm an idiot?” the doctor snarls, ignoring her son. “People like me don't get to publish our studies. They'll throw me in a cell to rot if they don't give me the death penalty.”

“They won't,” Eugene promises, forcing himself to make eye contact with her and ignore Varian starting to cry quietly in the corner of his vision. “The government makes exceptions like this all the time. You're too smart for them to ignore your work. I'll get you what you need, doc, I promise.” 

She chews on her lip for a second, clearly debating. Eugene licks his dry lips. 

“Just let Varian go upstairs,” he says softly. “I'll explain everything to the officers when they get here, just don't–”

In an instant, cold metal is pressed against the underside of Eugene’s jaw, and he clamps his mouth shut. 

“I already told you,” the doctor says, voice low and insistent, “that I would never hurt my son.”

Eugene swallows, and the gun presses harder against his throat. “I don't think you would,” he says slowly, weighing every word before he says it. “But I think he's upset right now, and this is a conversation for the adults to have.”

The doctor stares him down. Eugene stares back, waiting for– for something. For her to pull away, or pull the trigger. For a knock at the door. For–

“Mom?” Varian asks, voice shaking. “Are you in trouble?”

The doctor keeps staring at Eugene, and then her expression goes thoughtful in a way that sets off warning bells in Eugene’s mind. Her pulling the gun away and stepping back from the table isn't the relief it should be, because she's turning to Varian now. 

“A little bit,” she admits. “But it's okay, baby. You don't need to worry about it.”

“Am I in trouble?” Varian asks. 

“A little bit,” the doctor repeats, voice soft and gentle in a way that makes Eugene's skin crawl. “But not for much longer.”

“Doctor,” Eugene says, and he's trying to stay calm, to keep his voice level, but she's cupping Varian’s face in her hands now like she's not still holding the gun, like it's not pressed against her son’s head, and Varian’s look up at her with perfect, unquestioning trust– “Doc, listen–”

She doesn't turn around. “You'll be good for me, right, baby?” she asks softly. “Just stand still, sweetheart. It's gonna be loud, but it won't hurt.”

“What won't?”

“Doc–” Eugene jerks against the straps, fighting desperately to sit up, but he couldn't even do that his first day down here. He can't do more than wriggle pathetically in place now, after days of drugs and surgery. He feels a pop and a sharp, bright line of pain along his stomach, but he can't just lay here, he can't just sit still and watch her kill Varian, this can't have been for nothing–

“It's okay,” the doctor coos. “You'll be okay, sweetheart. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you too,” Varian says, but he's looking nervously between her and Eugene thrashing on the table. “I don't– what's going on? What's gonna be loud?”

Whatever the doctor says, Eugene doesn't hear; she bends close to Varian and whispers something in his ear that makes the kid's eyes go wide in shock, then she kisses his forehead and takes a step back. 

“Mom?”

“I love you, baby,” the doctor says, still keeping her back to Eugene, and she lifts the gun. Eugene shouts in protest, still fighting desperately to get off the table, but his voice is drowned out by the deafening blast of the gun going off. Eugene closes his eyes automatically, wincing at the painful ringing in his ears, but he forces them back open an instant later when the entire table rattles as something falls against it. 

He meets Varian’s eyes. The kid is staring at him, face gone white with shock and splattered with blood. 

The doctor lies twisted on the ground beneath them, leaned awkwardly up against the table. Eugene can't twist around enough to see her properly; he can only make out her feet. 

“Fuck,” Eugene breathes. “Fuck, Vari–”

“Mommy!”

Varian rushes forward from the counter and drops to his knees next to his mom, frantically patting at her chest and– god, there can't be much left of her face, and Varian’s seen some horrifying shit, but never to his mom and never the wreck of a point blank shot to the head. 

“No, no, no–”

“Varian,” Eugene says, but he doesn't actually know what to say. “Kid, it's okay, it's gonna be okay, I promise–”

That gun was loud. Moans and muffled voices, sure, but a gunshot? The team is on the street. They have to have heard that. 

“Ch-chest compressions,” Varian says frantically. “She needs– I have to– one, two, three, four, she– Mom, stop, stop bleeding, you can't be bleeding, please don't bleed–”

He's sobbing. Eugene twists as much as he can, watching helplessly as the kid's tiny shoulders jerk as he attempts CPR. He's mumbling the count under his breath, voice breaking as he keeps going. 

“I can't– I don’t know– you need stitches, you need– it's okay, Mom, I got it, I know how, it's okay–” 

“Varian,” Eugene says again as Varian jumps to his feet and goes scrambling back to the counters, ripping open drawers and cabinets in search of tape and gauze. There's blood on his hands, leaving dripping fingerprints all over the counters he works so hard to keep clean. “I'm sorry, kid, I don't think–”

“Shut up!” Varian screams, dropping the roll of bandages he just picked up so he can slap his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut like if he doesn't look at his mom, he can pretend those bandages would make a difference. “You're a body, you can't talk, I'm not supposed to talk to you, stop it!”

Eugene swallows. Varian is panicking, and Eugene wants nothing more than to comfort him, but he doesn't know where the gun fell when the doctor dropped it, he can't get off the table, he can't do fucking anything–

In the distance, he hears a siren. Varian drops his hands—there's blood on the sides of his face now, in his hair, and still those droplets that sprayed across his face in the blast—and opens his eyes, expression twisting with dread. 

“No,” he mumbles. “No, that– no police, they'll take me away, Flynn I don't want them to take me away–”

“They won't,” Eugene promises quickly. “They'll take care of you. You're gonna be okay, buddy, I promise, just stay here, just stay with me and it'll be okay.”

Varian's eyes are wild, and he's sobbing so hard he can't stand up straight, entire body heaving on each breath. “No, you said– you said hide. Hide, I have to hide, I can hide–”

“No, no, it's okay,” Eugene says quickly. “Those are my friends, remember? You don't need to hide from my friends.”

Varian shakes his head frantically. “No, but you said. You said, you said hide and Mom said stay still. I can do it, I'll be good.”

He wrings his hands, sending droplets of blood spraying off of them and sprinkling on his face and shirt as he looks around the room desperately. Eugene thinks for a moment that Varian will stay here after all, maybe go hide in his bedroom, and then the kid breaks for the stairs without another word. 

“Varian!” Eugene shouts after him, trying once more to pull against the restraints even though he knows it can't possibly do any good. “Varian!”

There's no response, just the sound of footsteps and the door slamming behind him, leaving Eugene locked in silence. He calls Varian again even though he knows it won't make a difference before dropping his head back against the table with a wordless shout of frustration. Varian’s smart, he reminds himself. He won't run out in front of strangers in the house, and the team is too well-trained to shoot at anything that moves. He'll be fine. He has to be fine. 

He can hear dripping, he realizes now that Varian’s gone. The doctor’s blood. Maybe some of Eugene’s, too. The drain below the table gurgles quietly as her blood reaches it. How long has it been? It can't have been long. The team must have heard the shot. Eugene heard sirens, didn't he? He didn't imagine that. Varian heard them, too. That happened. 

Dripping. 

They're close, they're close, they're on the way. The adrenaline is fading; Eugene’s body is too worn out to keep it up for long. How long now? Did Varian have time to hide? Did the team find him anyways? Eugene can't hear anything from upstairs; that fucking deal around the door works too well. All he can hear is the blood, dripping and draining. 

He tore his stitches when he tried to get up. He can feel it, a burning pain in his abdomen, blood pooling across his stomach. The empty room spins around him, and his vision fades in and out. He's going to die here. He's going to die now, with the team only minutes away, he survived the last five days just to bleed out right as they finally find him–

A thousand miles away, he hears the door to the lab burst open. There's a strangled curse in a voice he knows but can't place, and then hands on his face and neck, prying up his eyelids and feeling for a pulse. The voice keeps yelling, volume uneven like a bad radio, and he blinks as a familiar face swims into view over him. 

“–bert! Eugene!”

He's never heard Cass sound this panicked before. Funny that it's for him. 

He licks his lips and manages in a thread-thin rasp, “D’you just… call me Eugene?”

He doesn't know if the sound Cass makes is a laugh or a sob, but she covers her face for a moment to collect herself before dropping her hand. “Yeah, asshole, you finally earned first name privileges,” she says, then the most beautiful words Eugene’s ever heard: “Hold on, I'm getting you out of here. What hurts worst?”

“Stomach’s bleeding,” Eugene mumbles. “Tore somethin’.”

Cass pulls the sheet back to look. Eugene can't get enough air to scream, but he whimpers as it peels away from his raw, wet skin. Cass swears again at the sight, but she jumps to action immediately, grabbing gauze and tape off the counter and messily dressing the wound. 

“We've got an ambulance outside,” she says. “They know you're here. We're clearing the house, then they'll be in to fix you up.”

Eugene frowns at the ceiling. Something about that pings something in his brain, something important he was supposed to remember, but he can't manage a clear thought through the haze of pain and blood loss. He closes his eyes, too exhausted to keep them open. “Surgery again?” he asks, disappointed. “C’n I have painkillers this time?”

“Jesus Christ,” Cass mutters. “Yes. Yeah. Anything you want, Fitzherbert, I swear.”

Eugene manages a lazy smile and a noise that tries to be an amused snort, but comes out too wet. “Mkay. Then I want y’r bike.”

It's an old argument, a familiar game of tug of war they’ve been playing since the early days of their partnership. One of the safe points they can needle at each other about without actually hurting: Eugene uses too much hair gel. Cass loves her motorcycle more than anyone on earth. It's solid ground to return to when things are shaky. 

Cass laughs, finishes with the bandage, and moves to unhook the thick straps holding Eugene to the table. “Let's not get crazy,” she says. “I'll leave your ass here if it means keeping my bike.”

A week ago, even a few days ago, Eugene probably would have recognized that as a joke. He would have run with it, teased her back, whined dramatically about how she said anything. Now, his eyes snap open and he tries to jerk up right, which doesn't accomplish anything except making his entire body light up with pain and Cass jump back in surprise. 

“No,” he gasps, and the room’s tilting grows more violent as he panics. He doesn't have the energy to thrash, he can barely twitch, if she decides to walk away he can't stop her– “No, Cass, please don't leave, don't leave me, I don't want to be here anymore–”

“Shit, hey, no–” 

There's suddenly a calloused, deceptively small hand on his face. He tastes salt, and blinks tears out of his eyes to see Cass’s stricken expression. 

“That was a stupid joke,” she says, voice shaking. “That wasn't funny, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I'm not going anywhere without you, okay? I'm not leaving you behind.”

Eugene can't get his breathing under control. He squeezes his eyes shut as he sobs helplessly, and he feels Cass duck down and press her forehead to his temple. 

“I'm not leaving,” she whispers. “Eugene, I promise, I'm not leaving you. You're coming home. You're gonna be okay, I'll keep you safe.”

And that, finally, clicks into place what Eugene’s been forgetting. 

“Varian,” he gasps. “Fuck, she– there's a kid. Cass, she's got a kid.”

Cass pulls back, eyes wide. “What? Whose kid?”

“Hers, I think,” Eugene grunts. “Let me up, he's still in the house–”

Cass stands and reaches for the radio on her shoulder with one hand and fumbles for the straps again with the other. “Be advised, suspect is down but she has a child, believed to still be in the house.” She glances at Eugene. “Armed?”

“No,” Eugene pants. “I don't think. He's just a kid, she made him help–”

“Fuck,” Cass says emphatically. “Goddamnit, no wonder we couldn't figure out the partner. All right, come on–”

She undoes the last buckle and flings the strap off. Eugene groans in relief at the release of pressure over his legs, then again when Cass slips her arm under his shoulders and helps him sit up. He's shaking and his breath coming in uneven gasps by the time he twists around to put his bare feet on the floor. 

He cringes when they land in a puddle. Cass turned him to the side of the table that the doctor didn't land against, but her blood has spread around it, even with the drain below the table. Hell, maybe some of its Eugene’s, too. A glance down shows that he's already bleeding through the bandage Cass just taped down. It also shows him a lot of other mess that he doesn't want to look at, so he forces his eyes back up. 

Cass is calling into the radio for the medics to meet them in the basement. Eugene shakes his head. 

“I need to find Varian,” he says, insistent for all that his voice trembles. “I told him to hide. I don't think he'll come out if I'm not there.”

“I'll find him,” Cass promises. “What matters now is getting you to a hospital.”

“He trusts me,” Eugene says. “He won't trust you.”

“Fitz–”

“Cass, he's ten,” Eugene interrupts. “He's a little kid, his mom just shot herself in front of him, he's gotta be–” The room lurches, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gagging. “He's scared shitless. I gotta find him.”

Cass hesitates, then groans. “Fuck you,” she says, then eases his arm over her shoulder. His legs feel like jello when she pulls him to his feet, and she doesn't start walking until he's steady enough to stand up on his own. She still carries most of his weight as they stagger towards the stairs, but Eugene feels less like he's about to disintegrate into ash than he did a few minutes ago. Adrenaline is burning through his system, his heart is pounding in his ears, and all he can see is Varian’s shock-white, blood splattered face, stunned and horrified as he screams for his mom to wake up. 

The stairs are hell. He never wants to go up stairs again. He's moving into a ground floor apartment as soon as he gets home. 

“Varian,” he calls as soon as they make it to the ground floor. His voice comes out weak and raspy, and he coughs and tries again, squeezing his eyes shut. “Varian!”

“Fitz, you need a hospital,” Cass grunts. She's panting under his weight, trying to support him without touching any of the dozens of wounds on his chest and stomach. Eugene's chin keeps dropping; only the knowledge that he'll probably pass out if he looks down at himself keeps his head up. 

“Stairs,” he says. “He said he's got a– under the stairs.”

They move forward. As they cross the living room, Eugene sees two EMTs removing a stretcher from the back of an ambulance parked outside. There are people standing around watching, some talking or texting, others holding their phones up to record. Pete has both hands up and is shouting something Eugene can't make out, probably reminding everyone to stay back. He glances over his shoulder at the house when someone points, and his eyes go wide when they meet Eugene’s through the window. He stays where he is, too well trained to leave his post, but his jaw sets like it's a physical effort not to run inside after them. 

Stan comes pounding down the stairs, gun held at the ready but pointed safely down. 

“Upstairs cl– Fitz, holy fuck!”

“Stairs,” Eugene repeats, then groans in relief when Stan holsters his gun and slips around his other side without a word. “He's under the stairs.”

There's not really a crawl space under the steps. What there is, is a metal air filter, too small for any of them to fit through but the perfect size for a little shrimp of a kid, with a tiny, almost unnoticeable streak of blood along one edge. 

Eugene sinks to his knees in front of it. Stan and Cass keep him from face planting in the carpet, and he carefully pulls his arm away from Cass to knock on the wall next to the grate. 

“Varian?” he murmurs. “It's Flynn. You in there, kiddo?”

No response. Eugene grits his teeth. “Bud, come on. I'm here with some friends, I just want to make sure you're okay. Can you tell me if you're hurt?”

Fuck, maybe he's wrong. Maybe Varian's in the attic, maybe there's another hiding spot he didn't tell Eugene about, maybe he left the house completely–

Varian’s voice floats through the grate, thin and trembling. “What's– what's the password?”

Eugene sags against Cass in relief. His head is spinning again, relief and pain and leftover terror, and he digs through the mess to remember when the hell they talked about passwords. Is that from one of the books? Did Varian and the doctor have a password that Eugene is supposed to know?

“I don't know, buddy, I'm sorry,” he says. “Was it…” He comes up blank. “I'm sorry, V, I don't remember.”

“It's our team name,” Varian prompts. “You said we have a team name.”

Eugene huffs out a weak laugh despite himself. That, at least, he remembers. “Oh. Team Awesome, right?”

He hears scuffling on the other side of the grate, and he sees a hint of movement in the darkness. Varian sniffles, then says, “There's not supposed to be people in the house. Mom’ll get mad.”

Eugene squeezes his eyes shut, heart aching at the tears in Varian’s voice. “No, no, it's okay, kiddo,” he says softly. “They're my friends. Remember, I told you my friends were coming? This is Stan and– and–” He makes the mistake of opening his eyes, only to close them again when his vision twists and distorts like he's looking in a funhouse mirror. “And Cass. Cassie.”

Cass makes a soft, annoyed sound—and what the hell else was Eugene supposed to introduce her as, Special Agent Stone?—but she's not half the ice queen she pretends to be, and her voice is gentle as she says, “Hi, Varian. It's nice to meet you.”

“Cass’s gonna look out for you, ‘kay?” Eugene asks. He's slurring again. He can tell the words aren't coming out right, but he can't keep his eyes open and he needs to make sure Varian is okay before he passes out again. “You can trust her. She's my best friend, she's gonna keep an eye on you while I'm… while I'm gone, okay?”

He cracks his eyes open just enough to see thin, blood-stained fingers slip through the grate, gripping it so hard they turn white. “Gone?” Varian asks, alarmed. “Gone where? You can't go.”

“Hospital,” Eugene explains tiredly. “I need some help, kiddo. We both do.”

“No, no hospitals,” Varian says. “They've got bad doctors. You don't need a hospital, my mom can… mom will…” He trails off, and Eugene hears a tiny, choked-off sob. “Flynn?”

Eugene swallows. “Yeah?”

“Is my mom a body now?”

Eugene barely bites back a sob of his own, dropping his head onto Cass’s shoulder when it becomes too heavy to hold up. “Yeah,” he says again, voice breaking. “I'm so sorry, Varian.”

He hears a soft sound of scraping metal and pries his eyes open to see the grate being carefully pushed out of its place in the wall and set to the side, revealing Varian sitting there in the vent. Stan sucks in a breath at the sight, and Eugene feels Cass wince. Varian’s covered in blood, even more than he was before; there's a smear the shape of a tiny handprint over the lower half of his face, like he was covering his own mouth to stay quiet while he hid from the team searching his house, and more in his hair and streaked along his temples. 

His eyes lock on Eugene, and his expression crumples. “I want my mom,” he sobs, wrapping his arms around himself as he starts to cry in earnest. 

Eugene doesn't know what to say to that, but as it turns out, he doesn't have to. All that comes out when he opens his mouth is a weak, breathy groan, and then his eyes roll back in his head as he slumps forward, unconscious. 

The next few days pass in a haze. He knows he wakes up a few times, but he never remembers it clearly. His doctor tells him later it was “touch and go” for a while and that Eugene is a fighter. He talks about Eugene coding once in the ambulance and once during surgery, about the truly astonishing amount of blood they had to give him, about the infection and fever that nearly killed him again in the days after Cass got him out of that basement. 

The first thing he actually remembers is blinking awake to see Cass slumped in the chair next to his bed, suit coat hanging over the back and sleeves shoved up past her elbows, typing something on her phone with an expression that says whoever she's texting isn't long for this earth. She looks about as good as Eugene feels, which is to say she looks like she got run over by a convoy of steamrollers. 

“Hey,” Eugene mumbles, and Cass jumps so hard she drops her phone and has to scramble to catch it before it hits the ground. 

“Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that,” she says, staring at him with wide eyes. “What the fuck, asshole?”

“I just said hi,” Eugene protests. His face feels stiff and strange, but he manages a smirk anyways. “The hell’s got you so jumpy?”

“Weapons grade caffeine,” Cass says, running her hands through her hair distractedly. “You're– fuck, I should tell a doctor you're up, one second–”

She's out of her chair and poking her head out the door a moment later, calling for someone’s attention out in the hallway. Eugene sighs and braces himself. 

It's not that bad, all things considered. He's certainly been through worse recently, but his head feels stuffed full of cotton, and listening to the doctor listing off all of Eugene’s injuries is both nauseating and hard to focus on when he's trying to keep one eye on Cass. He can see her through the window, pacing back and forth while she talks to someone on the phone. Probably telling the team he's awake, maybe canceling the party she’s always said she'll throw one day when his stupidity finally catches up to him. 

She hangs up right as the doctor finishes his spiel, and Eugene drags his eyes back to him, focusing carefully on his face and not the white coat. 

“No, yeah, I'm all good here,” Eugene says, in answer to a gratingly gentle Please let me or the nurses know if you need anything at all. “Can you grab my partner, I think she's about to bolt–”

The doctor glances over his shoulder to see Cass already turning to walk away, then quickly steps out of the room to stop her before she leaves. She's avoiding Eugene’s eyes as the doctor leads her back into the room, and she hovers awkwardly by his bed, resting one hand on her suit jacket like she's ready to grab it and run. 

“Who was on the phone?” Eugene asks. 

“Nigel,” Cass says, and snorts when Eugene makes a face. “Yeah, you and me both. But he wanted to know when you woke up so he could release a statement. The press has been kicking down the door for updates.”

“About little old me?” Eugene asks. “Well, that's flattering.”

“About the heroic survivor of the Surgeon of Old Corona?” Cass asks dryly. “They're going feral for it.”

“Fucking vultures,” Eugene mutters. Cass shrugs. She still won't meet his eyes. “Will you sit down? This height difference is freaking me out.”

“I should get back to the office,” Cass says. “Thanks for the mountain of paperwork you left me, by the way.”

“Cass,” Eugene says softly, and she clamps her mouth shut. “Please?”

Cass hesitates for a moment, then drops back into the chair with a huff. She squints at him for a second, then cuts her eyes down to where his hand is lying on top of the blanket. 

“Are we the hand-holding kind of partners?” she asks, and Eugene snorts and turns his hand over, palm up. 

“I won't tell if you don't.”

Cass takes his hand gingerly, like she's not sure how to do it, then holds on like she's afraid someone's going to pull her away. Eugene squeezes her fingers back as tightly as he can. 

“So,” he drawls, “how's your weekend going?”

Cass laughs weakly, then sniffles. “Better than yours, I bet,” she says thickly. “I just thought you were gonna die, is all.”

Eugene grins. “Disappointed?”

“No,” Cass murmurs, staring down at their linked hand. She clears her throat, then continues, clearly aiming for their normal banter and missing by a mile, “Imagine the paperwork. And trying to break in a new partner when I just got you all trained up? Nightmare. I would have hated it.”

“Hey,” Eugene says, and he waits until she meets his eyes before he says, soft and sincere, “Thank you.”

Cass closes her eyes and nods a few times, lips pressed together. “Yeah.”

“I didn't doubt you for a second,” Eugene continues. “I knew the whole time you were gonna come for me. 

“That's what–” Cass’s voice breaks, and she covers her face with her free hand as her shoulders start to shake. “That's what she s-said, fuck, you've made me cry so much this week, you bitch.”

Eugene grins again even as his own eyes burn with tears. “Not as much as I have. Get on my level.”

“I hate you so much, I'm so glad you're okay,” Cass mumbles, dropping her hand. “God. This has been the shittiest month.”

“You're telling me,” Eugene says, yawning. “Am I allowed to ask about the case?”

“Yeah, that's fine,” Cass says. “You're still technically part of the investigation. We'll need a formal statement and report from you at some point.”

“Don't tell me that,” Eugene groans. “I don't want to do paperwork.”

“Make Pete write it for you,” Cass says with a shrug. “He loves reports.”

Eugene sighs. “The doctor?”

“Dead before we got there,” Cass says. “Which you knew.”

“Hard to miss,” Eugene agrees. “Who the hell was she?”

“Her name was Ulla Ruddiger,” Cass says. “Used to be a surgeon in DC. She and her husband moved down here with the kid to get away from the mess after she lost her license.”

Eugene nods, then yawns. “And then she killed him?”

“Yeah,” Cass says tiredly. “They lived a few towns over back then. She told neighbors they got a divorce and moved again. Been here ever since.”

“What made her snap?” Eugene asks. It's hard to keep his eyes open. “If I have my timeline right, he was her first kill, but why him?”

“According to Varian, his dad wanted to ‘take him away,’” Cass says, making finger quotes with the hand not holding Eugene’s. “Best guess, he realized his wife had a few screws loose and tried to get the hell out of dodge with the kid, and she lost it.”

“God, Varian,” Eugene murmurs, dragging his free hand down his face. “How's he doing with all this?”

“He's… okay,” Cass says. “It's been a rough adjustment, but he's safe.” She squeezes his hand. “He's been asking about you.”

Eugene smiles despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cass says, then admits, “I don't think he totally understands the concept of you being in the hospital. He asked about, uh. Decomposition.”

“Yeah, he thinks I'm a body,” Eugene says through another yawn. “Probably thinks the ambulance took me to the morgue. He's smart, he'll figure it out.” Cass doesn't answer for a minute, and Eugene forces his eyes open to see her looking nauseous. “What?”

“No, sorry, that's just horrifying,” Cass says, then shakes her head. “I, uh, I called your contact at BACA for him. I don't know how helpful they'll be for him, really, but I figured we should at least have them in the barrel, since he's been worried about going outside. And wait, before I forget–”

She twists around to start fishing in the satchel hanging off the back of her chair. “I told my sister you got your dumb ass kidnapped,” she says over her shoulder, then turns back around, revealing a Tupperware full of cookies. “And her response was to start baking.”

Eugene’s mouth starts watering immediately. “Rapunzel cookies?” he asks. “Oh hell yes, gimme–”

He's never actually met Cass’s sister, but her desserts are the stuff of legend around the office. Eugene is pretty sure the only reason Pete actually likes filling out reports so much is because Cass Pavlov’ed him into it by consistently bribing him with snickerdoodles to do hers for her. The thought of a whole container to himself almost makes a week of torture worth it. 

He doesn't say anything when Cass pins the Tupperware between her knees so she can pop the lid off with just one hand, so she doesn't have to let go of him. She doesn't say anything about the way he tightened his grip when he thought she was going to. 

She also doesn't say anything about the fact that Eugene only makes it through half a cookie before he starts yawning too much to chew, just plucks the remainder from his hand and finishes it off herself. Eugene grumbles something unintelligible, and she snickers. 

“Get some sleep. I'll save the rest for you.”

“Mkay,” Eugene mumbles, then forces his eyes open. “You'll stay?”

“I guess I can do paperwork here just as well as the office,” Cass says. Eugene frowns, and she squeezes his hand again. “Yeah, Fitzherbert,” she says softly. “I'll stay.”

Cass hasn't let him down so far. Eugene laces his fingers with hers and lets himself drift off. 

She does have to leave eventually to update their unit chief and fill in the rest of the team, but she leaves the cookies. Eugene immediately uses them to try to bribe one of the nurses into letting him go home early, which only gets him an unimpressed look in return. She does explain how to use the PCA pump, which Eugene uses once and immediately decides he hates. The pain is better than the fuzziness. Cass comes by again just before visiting hours end with the list Eugene texted her of things from his apartment and a promise that Stan, Pete, and a few others will come by to see him tomorrow. Eugene thanks her, gives her back the already-empty Tupperware, and falls asleep in the middle of the conversation. 

His dreams aren't good. He has a feeling it might be a while before he has good dreams again. 

“Mom, do I have to?” Blood. “Do I have to?” Pain. “Mom, are you sure I have to?”

A knife in his gut, then fingers, touching and poking and rearranging, and he can't even move enough to scream, someone's crying and he can't tell anymore if it's him or the kid, everything hurts in a way he didn't know it could–

Eugene jerks awake with a strangled noise halfway between a shout and a gasp, eyes flashing wide open. Lines of fire race across his chest and stomach as his body reminds him that sudden movements are a bad fucking idea, and his vision blurs as he darts his eyes frantically around the room too quickly to actually make it out. 

“Hey, hey, buddy, take a deep breath,” someone growls next to him, and Eugene sucks in a ragged breath automatically, following the bone-deep instinct to trust that voice. “Come on, kid. Match me. In… and out. Good job. In…”

It takes a few minutes for his breathing to return to something like normal. Eugene sags back against the pillows with a groan when it feels less like he's trying to inhale through a straw and presses a hand to his heaving chest. The pressure burns like hell, but it's grounding as he lets his eyes lazily around what he recognizes now as his hospital room. It's dark, lit up only by monitors and the softly glowing panel on the wall over the bed, but it's enough to see by when he rolls his head along the pillow to see who's talking to him. 

He should probably be surprised to see Hookhand sitting next to the bed, considering last Eugene heard he was still up north, but he's not. Eugene got hurt, and Eugene was scared. Of course Hookhand's here. 

“You look like shit, old man,” he rasps, and Hookhand snorts. “How do you age a decade every year?”

“I aged a decade the last two days,” Hookhand retorts, dragging a hand down his face. “And you're one to talk. Look at all those bandages. What’d you do, hug a wood chipper?”

Eugene huffs a laugh and lets his eyes drift halfway shut. “Feels like it. Who called you?”

“Attila,” Hookhand says. “He runs the chapter here. Your partner called him, said you've got a kid that needs some looking after.”

Eugene hums and nods, dragging his face against the stiff pillowcase. “Varian. You'll like him. Sweet kid, he's just been through hell.”

“Attila and the boys here will look out for him,” Hookhand says. “I'm talking about you.”

Eugene doesn't have it in him after the last few days to hold onto his pride. “Yeah?” he asks, voice breaking, and Hookhand sighs and runs his hand gently over Eugene’s head, brushing his hair out of his face. 

“Yeah, kid,” he says softly. “What did I tell you, huh?”

Hookhand’s told him a lot of things over the years. He's told him to shave against the grain for a closer cut and with it to avoid razor burn. He's told him to watch his fucking language. He's told him to eat something green once in a while so Hookhand doesn't outlive him. 

And when Eugene was seven, he crouched down in front of him and said with unshakable certainty that his dad was never gonna lay a hand on him again, and anyone who wanted to hurt Eugene would have to go through Hookhand to do it. 

Eugene says the same thing he said then. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Hookhand says. “Whatever you need, I'll make it happen.”

“That was probably easier when I was a kid, huh?” Eugene asks, smiling a little even as he closes his eyes against another round of tears. “Just wanted candy and books.”

“You haven't changed that much,” Hookhand says fondly. “That's still all you want.”

Eugene laughs again, then grimaces as even that small movement pulls at all the raw places on his skin. “Ow,” he wheezes, face screwed up as he bites back nausea. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Here,” Hookhand says, and Eugene forces his watering eyes open as he feels Hookhand press the PCA pump into his hands. “Dropped that.”

“Oh,” Eugene says. “Thanks.”

He doesn't click it. Hookhand raises an eyebrow. Eugene glances at him for half a second—and god, he said it as a joke, but Hookhand really does look like shit, all rumpled clothes and eyebags—then looks away. He keeps his thumb stubbornly off the button. 

“What, the nurse didn't tell you how it works?” Hookhand asks dryly. “You push, you get the good stuff.”

“No, I know, I just–” Eugene swallows. “I don't like how it makes me feel.”

“Not in pain?” Hookhand asks. Eugene tries to smile. 

“Makes my head fuzzy,” he admits. “And I can't…”

Can't focus. Can't keep watch. Can't tell if the next doctor to come through the door is here to help him or hurt him. 

Hookhand wraps his stubby fingers around Eugene’s over the pump, but he doesn't make him press it. “Take your meds, Gene,” he says, gravelly voice as soft as it only ever gets around Eugene and the other kids like him. “I'll keep watch.”

He did that when Eugene was a kid, too. Eugene hadn't been able to sleep at night, too scared Edmond would come back, until he looked out the window to see what looked like the biggest, strongest men in the world sitting outside guarding his house. Like knights from a fairytale. Like heroes from The Tales of Flynnigan Ryder. 

Eugene presses the button. The relief is almost immediate; his eyes drift halfway shut, and he melts back against the pillows with a sigh. “God, that's better,” he mumbles, and Hookhand snorts. 

“Yeah, kid, that's what it's there for.”

Eugene hums. “It just hurts, y’know?” he asks. “When they won't give you anything.”

“You're the one not taking it,” Hookhand points out, and Eugene shakes his head. 

“No, not now,” he says, yawning as he shuffles into a more comfortable position, now that it doesn't hurt too much to move. “The first doctor. In the basement. Took my kidney and wouldn't even give me a fucking Tylenol for it.”

Hookhand doesn't answer at first, and Eugene cracks open eyes he hadn't realized he closed to see him staring at Eugene. “What?”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Hookhand asks hoarsely. “Someone took your kidney?”

“Oh.” Eugene blinks. Hookhand's face swims in front of his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, but it's fine. Don't worry about it.” 

“I'm worried,” Hookhand says bluntly, but he's gentle when he squeezes Eugene's hand. “Tell me about it when you're sober, okay?”

“Yeah, this is a good button,” Eugene slurs, and Hookhand's rough, snorting laugh is the last thing he hears before he drifts off again. 

Hookhand sleeps in his room that night and spends most of the next morning with him, glaring suspiciously at the nurses who come to check on him and pretending to believe him when Eugene avoids his eyes and says he doesn't think he's allowed to tell him what happened while the case is still technically open. Eugene kicks him out eventually, both because Hookhand is old as dirt and needs to sleep in an actual bed before his bones crumble—which Eugene makes sure to tell him, earning himself a middle finger and a barely-hidden grin—and because the hospital wants him to talk to a therapist, which he refuses to do in front of the closest thing he has to a father figure these days. 

The meeting with the therapist goes… well, it goes. He comes by mostly just to introduce himself and ask if Eugene has any questions for him. Eugene tells him he's completely fine, then tacks on a hasty “all things considered,” because overselling it isn't going to get him out of having to see a psychologist. The guy definitely doesn't buy it, but he does beat a hasty retreat when Eugene pretends to fall asleep a few minutes in. He'll have to deal with that at some point, he's sure, but he doesn't have the energy for it right now. 

Left to his own devices, he rifles through the bag Cass brought him yesterday. He's already been using his phone to exchange stupid memes with the other members of the team, ask for updates on the case, and complain to Cass about how bored he is, but he plugs his switch into charge and unearths the real reason he sent Cass to his apartment in the first place: a battered and dog-eared old paperback held together with duct tape down the spine to keep the peeling cover in place, pages covered in doodles, notes, and more than a few games of tic tac toe and hangman, and a note on the inside cover wishing him a happy eighth birthday from the bikers at BACA. 

Eugene cracks it open and settles in. 

It doesn't take long to lose himself in the story; it's familiar enough that he recognizes the main beats, but it's been long enough since he's read it that small details and lines jump out like he's reading them for the first time. He couldn't say if this book is actually good, but it doesn't take long to remember why he loved it so much growing up. He only puts it down when he has to, either to eat, grit his teeth through having his bandages changed, or talk to unexpected visitors. 

The woman who knocks lightly on Eugene’s door that afternoon is petite, and her fuzzy, oversized sweater makes her look even smaller. She's wearing white canvas sneakers covered in sharpie doodles, and a hole in the knee of her jeans has been sewn over with a sequined patch shaped like a butterfly. Everything about her seems carefully designed to look small and nonthreatening. 

Her smile is warm. Her eyes are sharp and alert. 

“Goddamn,” Eugene says, slipping a post-it note in between the pages of his book to mark his place before he closes it. “My shrink quit that fast? They sent me a new one already?”

The woman snorts and steps into his room, apparently taking that as an invitation to come in. “I wouldn't know about that,” she says. “But good guess. I'm Dr. Lichtenstein. It's nice to officially meet you, Agent Fitzherbert.”

Eugene feels one side of his mouth quirk up as he shakes her outstretched hand. “Eugene,” he corrects. “I'm pretty extremely off duty.”

She smiles again. “In that case, Rapunzel.”

Eugene blinks. “Cass’s sister? Raps?”

“The one and only,” Rapunzel says. “I wanted to come by and officially introduce myself, since I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of each other.” Eugene cocks his head to the side curiously, mind too fuzzy to parse that out. “But you're not my new doctor…?” he asks, the only reason he can come up with, and she huffs a soft, breathy laugh. 

“God, no, can you imagine the conflict of interest? Treating my sister’s partner? No, I've been looking out for a friend of yours, and Cass told us you were awake and taking visitors.”

Eugene’s eyes go wide, and he starts to push himself upright only to wince and give up when his entire torso reminds him that he's supposed to be staying still. “Varian?” he asks, voice gone suddenly hoarse. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

“He was feeling a little shy,” Rapunzel says. “He’s in the hallway; he wanted me to check first before he came in. It's okay?” 

She raises her eyebrows and gives a tiny little jerk of her head towards the door. Eugene nods back and raises his voice as he says, “Yeah, I'd love to see him. I was hoping he'd come by.”

A moment later, a tiny hand wraps around the doorframe, and one bright blue eye peeks around the corner. Eugene feels almost dizzy with relief at the sight, and his grin threatens to split his face.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “You wanna come in?”

Varian steps fully into the doorway then and takes a few hesitant, shuffling steps into the room. His hair is clean and brushed back from his face. He's in what look like brand new clothes, blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the NASA logo printed on the front. He's nervously twisting the hem between his fingers, eyes darting back and forth between Rapunzel and Eugene. 

“Hi,” he says, so quietly Eugene can barely hear him. 

“Hi, Varian,” Eugene says, relaxing back against the pillows with a sigh. “How've you been?”

“Good,” Varian says. He doesn't move any closer. Eugene gestures at the chair next to his bed. 

“You wanna sit down?” he asks, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. “Tell me what you've been up to?”

Varian eases his way across the room and into the chair, sitting on the very edge like he's ready to run at a moment's notice. Rapunzel steps to the side to look out the window, making a show of giving them space without leaving the room. Eugene doesn't doubt she's listening in. 

“How are you feeling?” Varian asks. The bags under his eyes are dark enough to pass for bruises. God, has he slept at all?

Eugene probably can't talk. He's pretty sure he wouldn't have slept either without the drugs they have him on. 

“I'm a little sore,” he says honestly, because Varian’s too smart to believe him if he tries to lie. “But they've got me on some really good medicine, and that's helping a lot.”

“That's good,” Varian says. 

“How are you?” Eugene asks, which is a much more important question. “You've been staying with Rapunzel?”

Varian nods and peeks over his shoulder at where Rapunzel is still studiously taking in the view of the parking lot. “I'm good,” he says. “She's nice. She has a pet chameleon.”

“A chameleon?” Eugene asks, frowning in exaggerated confusion. “That's like… a magic frog, right?”

“What?” Varian asks, then giggles. “No. Frogs are amphibians. Chameleons are reptiles. They change colors.” 

“That sounds like magic to me, but okay,” Eugene says. “I can't change colors.”

“Well, you're not a reptile,” Varian says, grinning. “You’d have scales and a tail, and you'd be cold blooded.”

“Oh, yeah, don't have those,” Eugene says, grinning back. “So you're settling in okay?”

“Uh huh,” Varian says. “I have my own room. It's upstairs.”

Better than the one at home, where he'd had to walk through the lab for his brief, daily trips upstairs. 

“Hey, that's great,” Eugene says. “You have a window?” Varian nods. “Good view?”

“There's a garden in the backyard,” he says. “I can look at it all the time. She grows flowers and some vegetables.”

His eyes light up, and he sounds utterly enraptured. It's not the saddest thing Eugene’s seen this kid do, but it aches all the same that Varian is so excited about something small. 

“Flowers and vegetables?” he asks, then lets out a low whistle when Varian nods. “Woah. Quite the green thumb. You ever go out in that garden, or do you just like looking at it?”

Varian’s smile fades. “Um. I'm allowed, she said I can, but…” He shrugs tightly. “I just like looking.”

Going outside has not, historically, been a great experience for Varian. Eugene fights the urge to grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep smiling instead as he asks, “So what have you been up to, other than taking in the view?”

“I’ve been reading Flynn Rider,” Varian says, all excited again. “There's more books than I thought. She got me the whole set. Not even from the library, she bought them and said I could keep them.”

“That's so nice,” Eugene murmurs, glancing over at Rapunzel and fighting down a swell of emotion at the thought of Varian in a nice room with a view of a garden, surrounded by his favorite books to read. No bodies and no blood, just sunshine and stories. “Also a really funny coincidence, ‘cause guess what?”

Varian cocks his head to the side curiously, and Eugene picks up his book from where he dropped it on the bed when Rapunzel came in, holding it up with a flourish to show Varian the cover. “Ta da.”

A delighted smile spreads across Varian's face. “You’re reading it too!”

“Yup,” Eugene says, popping the p just to see Varian giggle about it. “Cass got it from my apartment for me so I could catch up. I told you I was gonna read them again.”

“Yeah, but I thought–” Varian hesitates, then swallows nervously. “Rapunzel explained it to me, about you being alive. But I didn't know that when you said it, so I didn't think you could actually read them anymore.”

“I'm glad she was able to explain it,” Eugene says gently. “That was probably pretty confusing, huh?”

“Mhm,” Varian says, staring determinedly at the book in Eugene's hand to avoid his eyes. “She's really smart. She's a doctor, too, but a different kind than my mom. It made sense, how she said it.”

“Yeah, I've heard good things,” Eugene agrees. “You're having fun staying with her?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. “Her house is really pretty. All the walls have paintings on them. And, hey!” He looks at Eugene again, grinning. “Her and Cassie are sisters!”

Eugene blinks. “Cassie?”

At the window, Rapunzel snickers and tries to disguise it as a cough. “Sorry,” she says over her shoulder. Her lips are twitching. “Got something in my throat.”

“Yeah, Cassie’s really nice too,” Varian continues. “She hung out with me when I was in the hospital before Rapunzel got here, and she came by to visit at Rapunzel’s house and told me a lot of facts about owls.”

Bird facts: Cass’s inexplicable go-to when dealing with kids. It's hit or miss, but the nerdy ones love it. Eugene could have guessed it would work on Varian. He just can't figure out–

“And you call her Cassie?” he asks. “We're talking about the same person? Tall, dark hair, total harda– uh, tough?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. Rapunzel’s shoulders hitch as she coughs again, and Varian shoots her a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm fine,” Rapunzel says, trying valiantly to pretend she's not laughing. “I think it's just a little dusty in here.”

“In a hospital room?” Varian asks. He looks back at Eugene with a frown. “It should always be clean in here. You should tell someone if your room is dusty. You could get sick.”

“I'm sure it's fine,” Eugene says. “She's okay with you calling her Cassie?”

“Am I not supposed to?” Varian asks. “What do you call her?”

“Mostly I call her Cass,” Eugene says honestly. “Cassandra when I want to bug her.” Sure as hell not Cassie, not if he wants to keep his balls intact. As far as he's aware, no one gets away with that except, apparently, Varian. 

“Rapunzel calls her Cass, too,” Varian says. “But when you introduced her, you called her Cassie. So I thought that was just her name that friends call her.” He chews on his lip for a second, then asks, “Should I call her Cass?”

“No, definitely not,” Eugene says firmly. “You should absolutely keep calling her Cassie. No one else does, so I bet it's like a fun surprise every time you say it.”

Rapunzel deserves an Oscar for her coughing fit. She clearly knows just as well as Eugene how much Cass hates the nickname. Eugene only vaguely remembers finding Varian in that vent, and he definitely doesn't remember introducing Cass as Cassie. He's surprised she didn't just leave him to bleed out after all. 

“Okay,” Varian says. “She explained to me about your name, too. ‘Cause it's Eugene, not Flynn.” 

Eugene winces despite himself. He hadn't even thought of that, in the mess of the last few days. “Oh, yeah. Sorry I couldn't tell you before.”

“It's okay,” Varian says. “I know it was a secret name, like how Flynn had in the books sometimes. Cassie said you were undercover, ‘cause– because my mom wasn't supposed to…”

Eugene had been about to laugh again at Varian saying Cassie, but his smile fades as the kid trails off. “You okay, buddy?” he asks softly, and Varian looks down at his lap and shrugs. 

“I don't know,” he says in a small voice. “I miss my mom. But the police and the other doctors say she was doing bad things.”

Eugene couldn't be more relieved the doctor is gone, but she was Varian's whole world for years. Eugene can't imagine how insane the last few days must have seemed to this kid, being out in the world for the first time without the only person he knows and trusts, and being told that that person was a murderer. All that after watching her eat a bullet in front of him, too. It's a miracle Varian's walking and talking under his own power. 

“I'm sorry, kid,” he murmurs. “It's been a rough week, huh?”

“Uh huh,” Varian agrees. He doesn't look up. “Rapunzel says, um. I told you she's like a head doctor, right?”

“I think Cass told me that, yeah,” Eugene says.

What Cass told him specifically, back in the early days of their partnership when giving her the opportunity to brag about her sister was the only surefire way to get her to open up, was that Rapunzel used to be an agent, too, before leaving the bureau to become a social worker. Eugene has to imagine that combination is why she was chosen to take care of Varian; as young and as unwilling as he might have been, Varian's mother still made him complicit in a horrifying list of crimes. For everyone's safety, they couldn't just give him to an unprepared foster family. There was probably a pretty short list of people in the area equipped to take care him. 

“Yeah,” Varian says. “She said that, um, it's okay to miss her, and be sad about things, even if other people aren't. Because she loved me and was nice to me, so I can still miss her.” He peeks at Eugene through his bangs. “What do you think?”

“I think Rapunzel’s right on that one,” Eugene says, even though what he really thinks is that the doctor was the furthest thing from nice to Varian. He thinks Varian is going to realize at some point how unspeakably cruel his mother was to him, and he just hopes that fallout isn't too painful. The kid’s been through enough. “You're right, she sounds pretty smart.”

Eugene hadn't realized how tense Varian had gotten until his shoulders relax, and he finally looks directly at Eugene, relief written on his face. “Yeah. She is.”

“I'm sorry you've been having such a hard time,” Eugene says. “But I think you're really brave for doing it.”

“Thanks,” Varian says, with a small, almost happy smile. “I think you're brave too. Like Flynn.”

“Thanks,” Eugene says, smiling back. “We're quite the pair here, aren't we?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. “That's why we're team awesome.”

“You got that right,” Eugene says, then yawns. “Ugh, sorry,” he says, belatedly covering his mouth. 

“That's okay,” Varian says. “I know you're tired. Cassie said you've been sleeping a lot. And you had surgeries and stuff, and you're on medicine that makes you tired. So it's okay.” He glances over his shoulder at Rapunzel. “Um, we can go, if you need to sleep.”

“Nah, I don't mind you staying,” Eugene says. “Just know that if I fall asleep on you, it's not that I'm bored, it's just the morphine.”

Varian’s smile looks a little more sincere this time. “Okay,” he says. “What, um. What part are you at in the book?”

Eugene opens the book to the page he had marked, blinking as the words swim in front of him for a moment before coming into focus. He wasn't kidding; as happy as he is to have proof that Varian is doing well, it's been a struggle to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time the last few days. “Uh, he's at the mill,” he says. “I think this is the scene where he meets Lance.”

“Oh, I love that part,” Varian gushes, sadness forgotten in the face of childish excitement about his favorite book. God, Eugene wishes he were that easy to distract. “It's so good. ‘Cause he thinks Lance is a bad guy, ‘cause he's stealing the flour, but he's giving it to all the villagers who can't afford it ‘cause the miller charges so much, and–”

“Hey, hey, spoilers!” Eugene protests. “I haven’t read it in a while. I don't remember the details.”

“Sorry,” Varian says, but he's still grinning. “I like that part a lot.”

“I can see that,” Eugene says, laughing. “I don't think I can keep my eyes open long enough to read it right now, but we'll have to hang out to talk about it after I catch up. We could have a book club.”

“That would be fun,” Varian agrees, then fidgets a little, eyes flicking between the book and Eugene’s face before he says hesitantly, “I could read it to you, if you want? So you can hear that part, but you can close your eyes if you want. I'm good at it. I read to my dad, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Eugene says, because out of the fog of his time in that basement, the memory of Varian excitedly introducing him to a jar of teeth is pretty thoroughly burned into his brain. “You want to? You don't have to.”

“I want to,” Varian assured him. “Can I see it?”

Eugene holds out the book, then blinks at Varian’s hands when he reaches out to take it. “Woah, look at that!” he says. “Cool nail polish, bud.”

Varian bites his lip on a shy smile, holding the book carefully in one hand and holding up the other to show off the sparkly blue paint. “Thanks,” he says. “Rapunzel did it for me. She's got the same color to match, see? Rapunzel, can you show him?”

Rapunzel finally moves away from the window, stepping over to stand next to Varian’s chair and hold one hand out. “Varian did my right hand for me, so I wouldn't have to try to do it with my left,” she says. “He did a great job, didnt he?”

“Yeah, that looks awesome,” Eugene agrees, making a show of examining her nails. “I mean, that's some professional quality right there.”

“I only smeared it a little bit,” Varian says proudly. “I always really like nail polish, but Mom said I couldn't have it in the morgue, ‘cause it could get messy, even if you wear gloves. But now I can, and Rapunzel has all kinds of colors to pick from, and she said I can use any of them I want.”

“Well you picked a good one to start with,” Eugene tells him, and Varian beams. “That looks great.”

“There's a lot of stuff I can do now,” Varian says, opening the book and dragging one brightly-painted finger down the page to find a starting spot. “Like, like nail polish, and going in the garden if i want, and having the curtains open. I can also, um.” He bites his lip, suddenly shy again, and taps his fingers nervously on the page as he says, “I asked Cassie what you do when you visit someone in the hospital, ‘cause I've never done that, and she said when she comes here, she talks to you and watches videos on your phones and, um, she said she holds your hand? Sometimes? And just ‘cause of I was always wearing the gloves and I wasn't supposed to touch you if I didn't, so I hadn't before, so could I do that too, maybe?”

Eugene squints a little as he tries to parse out what Varian is asking. “Could you…?”

Varian takes a deep breath, looks up at Rapunzel for a moment—she smiles and nods encouragingly—then turns back to Eugene and asks, “Could I hold your hand, too?”

Eugene’s never held his hand out so fast. “Hell yeah, kiddo,” he says, voice gone rough as he tries to hide how his heart is melting. “Go for it.”

Varian sets the book down on the edge of the bed and holds it open with one hand so he can slip the other carefully into Eugene’s. It feels almost terrifyingly small in his, soft and fragile, but he squeezes Eugene’s hand with surprising strength. Eugene wraps his fingers around Varian's and squeezes back, trying not to hold on so tight he hurts him. 

“Oh,” Varian says, blinking rapidly at their hands. “Oh, that's. Um.” He sniffles and ducks his head, wiping at his eyes. “Okay.”

Always wearing gloves when he dealt with the bodies, never allowed outside on his own. When was the last time before this week he was able to do something as simple as touch someone other than his mom?

Eugene doesn't press him, just looks up at Rapunzel while he gives Varian a minute to collect himself. “Do you want to sit down?” he asks. “I feel bad making you just stand.”

“Yeah, if you don't mind,” Rapunzel says. She glances at Varian, eyes soft, and reaches out like she's going to touch his shoulder before pulling her hand away. Her thought process seems to be along the same line as Eugene’s: Varian’s overwhelmed by holding someone's hand. More touching might be more than he can handle. 

Rapunzel pulls over the other chair, abandoned in the corner, and makes herself comfortable at Varian’s side. “I just wanted to give you two a minute to catch up,” she says. 

“I appreciate it,” Eugene says. “And hey, thanks for the cookies. Those were great.”

“Of course,” Rapunzel says, smiling brightly. “I'm glad you liked them. And that you were…” She hesitates, glancing at where Varian still has his head down. “Cass couldn't tell me a lot, while the case was ongoing,” she says carefully. “But I know she was worried. I'm glad you're all right.”

“I am,” Eugene says, then turns back to Varian. “Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, squeezing his hand a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Varian says, looking up with a tremulous smile. His eyes are wet, but he's not crying. “Yeah, I'm okay now. Um, okay, are you ready?”

Eugene makes himself as comfortable as he can be, settling in for story time. “Let's hear it.”

Varian clears his throat. “Okay. Uh, so, Rapunzel, he's at the part where he just escaped the duke, and he's hiding in the flour mill from his guards,” he explains, then bends over the book and begins to read, “Flynnigan pressed himself against the wall of the mill, hardly daring to breathe as he listen to the guards thunder past on their horses. Eventually, the sound of hooves faded. ‘At last!’ he said to himself. ‘Safety, at least for the time being.’”

Schlocky writing, purple prose, and the worst dramatic dialogue Eugene’s ever read. It's still his favorite book in the world, and Varian, just like his dad used to do when reading this to him, does different voices for all the characters. Whatever accent he attempts for Lance Strongbow is almost unintelligible, he stumbles over pronouncing some of the more archaic words, and when he gets too excited about a scene he'll forget to read out loud entirely, mouth hanging open as his eyes flick back and forth across the page.

It's unquestionably the best version of the story Eugene’s ever heard. Varian doesn't let go of his hand once; Rapunzel has to hold the book open for him when he needs to turn the page. Varian peeks up at both of them every so often like he's gauging their reactions, grinning when they laugh or gasp at the lines he's excited about before ducking his head back over the book. If Eugene ignores where they they are—and how they got there—he can almost believe that Varian is like any other ten year old, excited to show off a book he likes to adults he looks up to. 

Eugene’s not an idiot. He has at least a few months of recovery ahead of him before they'll let him go back to work, longer still before he's allowed in the field again, and that's not even touching the minefield of nightmares and panic his head has become. Varian’s probably going to spend the rest of his life untangling what his mother put him through and how to move on without her. 

Problems for later. They're both alive and out of the basement. Varian’s in one piece, and Eugene’s in most of one. Eugene can worry about the future and the road ahead of them later. For now, he wraps his hand around Varian’s as tightly as he dares, and he lets the kid read him to sleep.