InsaneJournal

Theseus
Five minutes had gone by since Rhiannon, Kris, Connor, and Faith slid the sewer grate back and descended into the hole in the concrete. Hayden had stood nearby and watched; once their heads cleared street level, he squatted down and replaced the metal frame. Then there was nothing for him to do but wait. And with a Marlboro Red smoldering in his left hand, and a comfortable seat on the back of his truck, Hayden Maragos was the picture of patient waiting, unless you knew him.

He scratched his shoulder blade and looked around. The parking lot of the closed KFC was quiet. Once in a while, the wind picked up a piece of litter and scuttled it along the gutters, or he would hear traffic from a few blocks north. The round lump of a necklace in his jeans pocket was the only thing to look at. He pressed his thumb against the shape. If he took it out, it would still be warm from her neck.

Instead he flicked the cigarette on the ground and watched that tendril of smoke drift up and get lost in the wind. It was definitely going to rain. The edge of the street map flapped under his backpack.

Whistler probably should've eaten before pulling into the parking lot at the burnt-out building off of Halsted. Despite its decrepit nature, the taunt of eleven herbs and spices (ten of which were salt) made the Agent's stomach grumble. But his connection with Rhiannon overpowered common sense (when didn't it, Whistler wondered) and so he made haste to her general vicinity upon arriving in the windy city.

He'd missed her by several minutes. The hatted man had a knack of being in the right place, but not necessarily at the right time. He'd been sidetracked to settle a dispute in Blaine, Kentucky (pop. 267 (human) and 14 (Negasi demon)) over property rights. Seems the city council wasn't up for, as they called it, 'foreigners' setting up in the quaint hamlet. It was the first time Whistler quoted the Constitution to them and he was sure he'd gotten at least thirty percent of it wrong but it shamed the Mayor enough to allow a 'trial period'. Something told the Agent it wouldn't be the only border dispute he'd be called to handle anytime soon.

Shutting off the Impala's engine, he caught the shadow of a man sitting on the back of a pick-up, parked next to Rhiannon's car. The short-haired fellow was smoking like a chimney, waiting. A wave of deja vu washed over the Agent. Just who was waiting for whom, anyway?

Shaking out a stick from his own soft-pack, Whistler ambled over. "Missing out, aren't you?" he asked.

Having watched the Impala pull in, Hayden was prepared to do some fast talking if the stranger asked what their cars were doing parked on a deserted block. At least it wasn't a cop, he thought to himself. But it was a short-lived train of thought because there was no mistaking the familiar figure who climbed out of the car. It wasn't just the hat; it was the bad shirt. "Whistler," he murmured. The two of them met once in Searchlight but his memory was fuzzy on the details. Maybe at the diner, and he thought it had something to do with Rhiannon.

"Nah, I'm just waiting," he said and indicated the sewer grate a few yards away. "What are you doing out here?"

"Could ask you the same." The shorter man lit his cigarette with his zippo, which then disappeared into his pants pocket. "Was a time you'd be in the thick of it, Hayden."

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. It wasn't just the cropped hair that was different about the man. Like a helium balloon with a slow leak, Hayden seemed... deflated.

"This is thick enough." The metal seat underneath him was starting to get uncomfortable. Hayden got up and began to fold the street map with calm accuracy. The zipper of his backpack closed over it, and he tossed it through the cab window. When the air stirred again, this time it was cooler, a downdraft before a front came in.

Hayden reached over the side of the truck and and grabbed the lid of the tool box. "Some of us aren't meant to carry swords and go charging off to war." He supposed he should've said aren't 'cut out to' rather than 'meant to'. The latter wasn't passive; it indicated an intentional design.

The shorter of the two men glanced around, as if his erstwhile companion were speaking to a third party. Whistler was alright in a fight, he could keep his ass covered and knew when to retreat. The potential in Hayden was far greater; he'd never witnessed the younger man in a firefight but his aura always suggested strength and courage.

Now, however. Not so much.

That was seriously... wrong.

"Since when did holdin' yer feet to the fire cause 'em to go so cold, Hayden?" Whistler asked.

There was a loud, metallic bang, as of a fist on the side of the truck, or perhaps just an overzealous shutting of the toolbox. In contrast to the sudden noise, Hayden's voice stayed low. "Since I learned what I do when it gets too hot." Because there was nothing left to do for distraction, he backed against the vehicle and crossed his ankles. "Can I ask you a question? If you're out here because of her," he gestured towards the sewer where Rhiannon had gone, "why are you asking?"

A ring of smoke encircled his hat before filtering into the night air. "What makes you think I'm here 'cuz of Rhiannon?" In part, Hayden was correct in his assumption. They'd partnered up for several years, off and on, and recent events made that more professional. And given the information forwarded, along with the conversation he was sure to have when the brunette surfaced from her excursion -- the other man was an open book; chapter three 'They've Gone to Check the Tunnels While I Hide Behind My Own Insecurities' told the Agent what he needed to know -- it was evident Whistler was going to be hanging around the windy city for a good amount of time.

But back to the matter at hand. "I go where I'm needed, Hay-Hay," he poked at his compatriot. "And right now, you need me more than she does. Probably as much as Kris needs ya too."

Any message in Whistler’s words that the former watcher was meant to receive got completely knocked askew by the nicknaming misfire. “Do me a favor, man… never call me that,” Hayden said and scratched the scruff on his jaw.

After he was done fidgeting, he folded his arms and let the parking lot fall into silence. The next sentence almost seemed like an afterthought, but it wasn’t one. “I’m more aware of what Kris needs to get by than anybody,” he said, being careful to measure his words. “I know when I’m it and I know when I’m not.”

A nearby streetlight dimmed and began to buzz, an annoying interference, but one that gave a very adequate audible explanation of how his nerves felt, just thinking about it the years he spent being exactly what the Slayer was missing in her life, and how it was easy and how it was right, and how it was gone. Hayden felt more like a man in the presence of that woman, who was preternaturally strong and emotionally tough as nails, than he ever had before or since.

"And what, you think you're helping her now?" Whistler shot back, oblivious to the comment about naming conventions. It was his way; it tended to be wrong and wholly inappropriate (that knife in his thigh back in 1943 after inferring a Taxi Dancer as a 'back-seat driver' coming to mind) but that wasn't the issue at hand.

"Look at ya, fer fuck's sake," he continued. "You're a former Watcher, former fighter, former lover. If you knew what she really needed, you wouldn'ta tucked yer tail between your legs after that mineshaft and possession incident. You, Hayden, are a shell of what you were and what yer supposed to be. Hell, I'm surprised you had the stones to remain in the parking lot."

It took a lot to piss Hayden Maragos off, but the Agent had just done it. The man was the epitome of still waters running deep, no matter the emotion, and his anger was deep enough to dive in and never come back up.

“How the fuck am I supposed to help her if I can’t fend for myself?” he shouted, coming off the truck in his agitation. This wasn’t about physical strength; it was about his mind, which was his genuine ticket into that lifestyle. Hayden pointed at his temple. “I couldn’t even keep my own head on straight! If you can’t hack it in that world, you’re just a weight dragging everybody down. I’m not gonna be the guy she has to look out for… She’s got a whole damn planet to look out for, not to mention her family, and I’m not gonna be the guy who puts her in danger… She’s got enough danger.”

Hayden could feel a familiar burn in his arms, and he made himself walk a few steps away. He put his hands behind his neck and pulled on it. “I used to protect her. Not during a fight but afterwards, when there was nobody else with the courage to do it. It wasn’t Corbett and it sure as hell wasn’t Dominick. But I can’t be close to her if I’m that easy to manipulate.” He dropped his arms but none of the tension. “Man, I was so fucking arrogant. I thought I had it all worked out. If I was on the right path, then nothing could take me out.”

Like a bull bearing down on a toreador, Whistler exhaled a line of smoke as he propelled himself towards Hayden. The cigarette was thrown down like a gauntlet at the man's feet. "Everyone gets tossed, you stupid idiot. I fuckin' died because a giant corrosive piece of shit got a hold o' me. Comin' back was their plan too. Pretty much threw everything I cared for into the trash can. I got played and nearly bit it a second time."

He circled the taller man and stood nose to chest. "You got beat up. You got mind-fucked. Get over yourself! Didya ever bother to consider that maybe, every time we get knocked down, it's the gettin' up that's important? That takin' another round in the ring is what it's about? And right now, Kris, Rhiannon and a few others are puttin' it out down in the tunnels. Maybe we can't protect 'em from up here but we sure as hell can back 'em up in other ways. Whatever they learn tonight is gonna require other resources. Research, bandaging, someone to help 'em limp to safety.

"Is that you, or are ya too much of a pussy? 'Cuz if ya are, Hayden, you might as well hop in the pick-up now and drive to Canada, become a fuckin' lumberjack." Whistler looked up, eyes ablaze.

Hayden hauled off and punched him in the face.

The guy might not have supernatural strength, but he was a big son of a bitch and he knew how to throw one.

Immediately after, his expression went from rage to disbelief. Hayden pulled back his fist and capped it in his palm, a sign that he not only regretted it, he wanted to make sure he didn’t let another one fly. Breathing hard, he walked a few paces off and turned around. “I’m sorry, man, but you really needed that.”

His nose bled. Whistler didn't need to touch the bridge to know it was broken. He wondered if it was an improvement.

The hatted man launched himself towards Hayden's center of gravity, tackling him to the ground. "Not as much as you do."

“Man, what the h--?” The exclamation got cut off. Whistler was shorter but he was part-demon and had gone countless rounds with a Slayer in the past. He knew how to knock a guy down.

Hayden went down hard on his side, striking his face on the raised curb in the process. Whistler ended up sprawled on top and got an elbow to his windpipe for the trouble. Hayden rolled out of the way and shoved the Agent off. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He retreated a couple of feet across the pavement and landed on his ass, mostly because of the supernovas exploding behind his right eye. He wiped blood away.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” Hayden said, waving the hatted man off with his red hand. “You’re like a... dwarf in a traveling salesman outfit.” For whatever reason, that made him laugh.

Whistler tried not to remain expressionless, but a slight scowl formed. "Dwarf?!" he exclaimed. "Do your bloody homework, Watcher. Dwarfs hate big cities. And they can't drive, on a count of not seeing over the dashboard."

He remained on the pavement, dusting off grit from one of his finer clothing choices, and trying hard to ignore his deviated septum. It made each exhale sound like a broken whistle. Christ. "Well if you're not gonna fight me, ya lug, what are ya gonna do?"

The response was a sound that was half-laugh, half-cough. Hayden lie back on the pavement and rubbed his face. “You mean after I put my eyeball back in the socket?” he clarified. If he squinted, the multiples of the streetlight converged into one. “I don’t know.”

His arm dropped. No matter what, he had been forced to hear what Whistler thought about him. Most of his argument – minus the lumberjack part – was made of things the reasonable part of Hayden’s subconscious had tried to tell him before, but couldn’t get through. Hearing it from somebody else made the argument more legitimate; being called a pussy put an exclamation on the end of it.

“I’ll figure it out.” There had to be a way to safeguard against what happened before. If he could get that worked out, maybe Hayden would let himself reach for the things he wanted again. If he was a lucky son of a bitch, maybe it wouldn’t be too late.

"That's all anyone can ask." Whistler pulled out his squished soft pack, grumbled under his breath and tossed it aside. "Funny thing about destiny, Hayden. Just 'cuz you have one doesn't mean it shows up all at once. Most of the time you've gotta run the labyrinth before ya get to the end. Nice to see you're not afraid of the bushes after all."

The other man’s boots scraped the pavement as he got up to his haunches. “It was never the bushes. It was the minotaur.”

Hayden looked across the lot to the sewer grate. “I just need the right kind of sword.”