"Hey! Who do I have to kill to get a decent cup of coffee around this dump?"

Nothing quite like waking up to the sound of someone shouting. It’ll happen more often than I care to keep track now that I’m back among the living. I open my eyes to a curtain of indigo hair, wisps that cling to my lashes like leftover moisture and a haze of fresh sunlight streaming through shutters I forgot to close before I slept last night.

That, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a Sandsteamer. A quick inventory analysis is enough to convince me of what I’ve known since last night: I’m a wreck. My shoulder is throbbing, and when I try to lift myself on my elbows I can’t quite get my arm under me.

I must be grinning like an idiot.

And I thought things were complicated before. But nothing puts it all in perspective quite like a healthy brush with clinical insanity. Even if they never catch up with me for the thievery, the arson, the extortion or the murder… that’ll still give them an excuse to put me away for good.

Perspective indeed. I rise slowly. In the drawer next to my bed, beside the spare revolver and the bowie knife, the vial of poison and the piano wire, there’s a half-empty bottle of dark liquid. Scraps of label still cling to the glass like shreds of clothing off a torture victim, but it hasn’t been anything you could read in a long time.

I take a swallow, a long one. It tastes thick and greasy, like old coffee or raw sewage or maybe a little of both. Take another swallow and this one goes down easier. It numbs me – the ache in my shoulder in any case - enough that I can struggle into my clothes, buckle my gun into place beneath my coat. I can feel it against my ribs like a fist when I move. Little things I never used to notice, like the heft of metal every time I breathe.

This morning, it feels like all the tiny pieces that I thought I lost along the way are finally starting to shake out of my clothes and my hair like watch screws.

I clasp my eye patch into place and head for the hallway, and it’s then that I hear my name over the clatter of dishes and the wind-like hum of voices from downstairs.

"Dominique!"

I’m worse off then I thought if I forgot to check the stairs as I left my room. Even if I recognize that voice that shapes the syllables of my name… Well, it could have just as easily been a rifle report.

"Hey, Dominique!"

I lift a hand to him to quiet him, pass the back of my fingers over my mouth quickly so he won’t see the smile I’m still trying to hide. I turn, just as he reaches the top of the stairs.

"Morning, Mr. Saxophone."

But he’s not alone this morning, and that’s all it takes to chill the genuine right out of my grin. I nod to our company.

"Wolfwood…" He doesn’t even need to say anything anymore to make me uneasy, doesn’t even need to look at me. It’s just something… This is a recent development, like a fever. I skirt him like quicksand and lean against the wall – casually, I can only hope – because it takes some of the pressure off my shoulder.

Wolfwood lifts his chin just a little. "Damn, Patch, I was wondering if I’d ever see you around here again."

"You know I can’t leave you alone."

A snort of quiet appreciative laughter, and he says, "So… this is all about us, then?"

I open my mouth to answer, but then that magenta-wrapped arm slides around his waist and I’ve forgotten what I was about to say. Never get used to that… only because these are the people I know and these are the people I trust as far as trust can be stretched in the desert.

They’re cautious, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t know what they were doing. But what they’re proposing is love in a season of plagues. If I really thought they were wrong, I tell myself I’d tell them, even if I am the last person who should be giving advice on the subject.

"The boss wants to see you now that you’re back, Dominique." Midvalley sounds serious enough that I’d be worried if it weren’t for…

"Yeah. Thanks for the early warning." One hand drifts up to rub at the aching spot above my collarbone.

"He got you good, did he?"

I shrug. Lopsidedly. "Not so good."

"Ha! You’ve got the Devil’s luck," he says.

I watch Wolfwood’s eyes narrow a little. He hasn’t looked over his shoulder once, hasn’t shifted against the body at his back. I’ll give him credit for that much. "Maybe the boss just likes her."

He’s aware of what he’s saying, I don’t doubt that. Midvalley knows more than he lets on, more then I’ve ever needed to tell him. And what he knows is the choirboy’s common knowledge as well. We wear our scars like armor. Words mean more than what words mean. It’s just the way these things have always been.

I shake my head. Denial was the defensive technique I learned first, years before parries or counterattacks. "Maybe he just knows I’m the best he’s got."

"And modest too." Grinning, Midvalley slides out from behind Wolfwood, trailing his hand idly over the rise of his hips. He thinks I won’t notice. But I notice. "Let me have a look at your shoulder, Patch."

"It’s all right." It’s an automatic response to twist out of his way, but he dodges to follow my retreat, and his hands fall – one on my collarbone, the other on the rise of my bicep.

"Sure it’s all right. That why you can’t move it, Dominique?"

"You’re a smart-ass." And I’m gonna tell him off – I really am – but he twists his hands hard, and with a sick-sounding crack I can feel bone slide back into place.

I turned a little pale, if the lazy curl of Midvalley’s lip is any indication, and my knees go weak for an instant. It’ll be a second before I’m certain my voice won’t quiver when I try to talk. "Goddamnit. That… really hurt."

He opens his mouth to answer me, then shuts it again, and his eyes slide past me, to the end of the hall. I don’t need to look up to know… there’s only one person who can coax that kind of a response from him.

Some things really never will change.

I surprise myself a little when I don’t turn until he’s only a step behind me. I know better than that… A sharp golden gaze slides over us, feels like he’s trying to discern guilt. And when his eyes settle on mine, it feels like I’ve been tried and convicted and sentenced in just that single instant before the next blink separates us.

"How is your shoulder this morning, Dominique?" There’s something hiding in his voice, something that approaches humor, but brushes closer to cruelty instead.

"Better, Sir." It’s an answer with none of the venom of my words the night before.

"Good. See that it heals." He narrows his eyes a little, and his expression shifts a little. It isn’t until he looks away again, though, that I realize it was a change meant only for me. "We’re moving out before noon," he announces.

I catch myself before my jaw drops completely, and my lips only part a little, as though to ask a question I haven’t quite thought of yet. At least Midvalley’s there to cover for me: "Where exactly are we going, Boss?"

He smiles. One of those rare smiles of genuine amusement; I can count the number of times I’ve seen that smile before on one hand. "South." His eyebrow curves elegantly. "A city called Babylon."

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