It happened the first time he got arrested. When he was 15. Handcuffed to the plastic gray chair, the metal clasped tightly around his wrist, reminding him why he was here. He glanced around the small precinct slowly, wishing he had his sunglasses despite the lens breaking when Doc threw the first punch… and his music, the tiny box cracking as it hit the ground forcefully. Yeah, the job hadn't gone as planned, and the fact that Doc had punched him was a consistent throbbing reminder that he was the reason why.

Car theft. A police car, in fact. But considering this was the teenager's "first" attempt, and he was at the precinct Joe used to work for when he was a bookkeeper, Miles was pretty sure he wouldn't be thrown in jail. But he was still in trouble. Doc was still coming after him. And Joe was still going to be pissed.

The 15-year-old bit his bottom lip, wincing slightly as the humming in his ears grew louder, the couple sitting across from him making out drunkenly, and a phone ringing in the other room. The headache building behind his eyes wasn't helping but whether it was from the black eye swelling on his right cheekbone or the bright fluorescent lights hanging above him, Miles didn't know.

He glanced down at the dried blood spread across the back of his hand, wondering momentarily how much of it was still smeared across his chin. The first punch hadn't hurt much, but the second… well, the second had drawn blood; and by the third, Doc had made his point. It wasn't the first time Doc had smacked him, but it was the first time he had punched him. And the teenager had been too shocked, too angry to fight back… besides it wouldn't have made a difference. It never made a difference.

Someone touched his knee and the 15-year-old jumped, pulling his handcuffed wrist forward slightly, wincing as the metal yanked at his skin, forcing it back as he glanced up. He swallowed thickly as his eyes met Joe's concerned features etched with the exhaustion spreading across his face. Joe glanced him over briefly, putting his thumb gently under the kid's chin, pushing it upward to get a better view of the teenager's face. He sighed silently, What happened?

For some reason, in that moment, it struck the teenager that it had to be around 2am… and that the older man had probably been sleeping. Miles had woken him up; not because he was sick, not because he was hurt… but because he had been arrested. Because he had gotten into trouble, again. Because of his own stupidity. Because of Doc. Guilt washed over the teenager, and Miles swallowed again, an apology sitting on his lips as he tried pulling his hand forward to explain, to apologize, only to be reminded yet again, that he had fucked up. That Joe was here because of him. That it was his fault.

Miles bit his lip, pulling back from his foster father's grasp slowly as tried again to bring his left hand forward as far as he could. He sighed slightly, I messed up. I wasn't thinking.

You're going to get hurt. If you continue with him, with what you're doing, Joe reached out another hand, his fingertips gently brushing the bruise painted on the boy's face before Miles drew back further. He swallowed as Joe paused, I don't want anything bad to happen.

I'm sorry, Joe. It won't happened again, Miles signed, his eyebrows drawing together in a convincing gesture as he tried to reassure his guardian with a lie. Joe's lips drew together in a fine line, a worried expression masking his features a moment later. The older man smiled sadly as he glanced over the boy's face, the cut on his lip, the black eye, the dried blood under his nose, before shaking his head, That's not what I'm saying.

The 15-year-old paused briefly, contemplating what Joe had meant. Sure, the kid had gotten punched a few times, smacked around once in a while; hell, he had even broken his arm when he was 10 after he accidentally crashed into another car, but that was it… Doc would never kill him. Well, he was almost certain Doc wouldn't kill him. But it never really occurred to him that Doc could harm Joe in some way… that he would. Miles opened his mouth to object, finding no words, knowing they were almost useless anyway, before signing, I won't let anything bad happen to you.

Joe sighed again, shaking his head slowly, I'm not talking about me.

The teenager sat there for a while, watching Joe converse with one of his old friends; the statement echoing in his head over and over and over and over. The cold metal sitting foreign on his skinny wrist, the throbbing on his face almost forgotten and Miles glanced down at the blood dripping down his shirt as his nose began to bleed again. I'm not talking about me… Oh…

….

There was blood everywhere. Blood and pain and… ringing… and yet, it was all dark. Completely dark. Cold, alone, empty… past the ringing in his ears, it was empty. Everything.

Pain surrounded him, lighting up the dark fog clouding his head, forcing his eyes open momentarily. And in that split second, all he saw was red.

He groaned loudly, wincing as he tried moving his hand, as he tried to remember… but everything was gone. All he had left was the light hanging above him painted in red, and the loud shrill sound piercing his ears…

"Baby?"

"Baby! Are you even listening? Or would you prefer to sit this one out?"

The voice was followed by a bang, the small plastic blue car rolling across the table, crashing to the ground as the 19-year-old glanced up slowly. He didn't need to look up to know who was talking, just like he didn't need to listen to know what his job was… because it was the same. It was always the same.

He cleared his throat as his eyes met Doc, and he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced around the small table at the three strangers who he'd met just an hour ago. Different day, different people, and a different place… but yet, nothing was ever really different. And it didn't matter much considering he didn't have a say. He didn't have an option… he couldn't sit this one out, he couldn't walk away; not like the others, not like the rest, not like he wanted to. Hell, he'd be lucky if this life didn't get him arrested one day… or killed. But he didn't have a choice. Because he had fucked up. And he still had two more years left.

The teenager adjusted his sunglasses before flipping past a few songs, and he pressed the right earbud back in his ear as he leaned forward, letting his chin fall against the metal table. It had been a long day. Doc was preparing them for another job, something big… bigger than the others, and apparently, he had bought off one of the cops in order to help out, which was different. The gist was the same though. Steal the money, drive the car, avoid the police, change cars, get coffee, give money to Doc then replace the burner phone and wait for the next gig. At least afterwards, he'd have the opportunity to go home, to sleep… well, after he spent some time with Joe. After he made sure he was doing okay.

The 19-year-old drummed his fingers across the table lightly, watching Doc's lips move wordlessly as the next song blasted through his ears. Someone moved to his right and Baby glanced towards them, watching behind dark lens as the man glanced nervously between him and Doc. The teenager couldn't remember the guy's name, but he didn't really care anyway… odds were he'd never see him after this. So, what was the point.

One of the girls sitting to his left laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glanced towards him. Baby ignored her. She'd been casting side glances at him ever since she joined the group this morning, for whatever reason, the teenager wasn't sure… and he had no interest in pursuing it.

The 19-year-old sighed silently. Doc's instructions were coming to an end, and Baby felt a wave of relief wash over him as the song blaring through his ears ended momentarily. The day was almost over, and soon the job would be too, leaving the teenager at least a month to himself. The only thing left to do, drive.

"Alright," Doc yelled, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced around the table, "I suggest everyone get some sleep. By this time tomorrow, everyone in this room will be 50 thousand dollars richer, and the cops will be wondering how in the hell the most guarded bank in this shithole of a city got hit. Any questions?"

"Yeah," The nervous guy sitting to Baby's right crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair slightly, "How in the hell is the kid supposed to be our ears if he ain't even listening to a word you're saying?"

Doc turned towards the teenager and Baby swallowed, straightening his posture and leaning forward slowly, taking his shades off and one of his earbuds out, "The target is Saint Francis National Bank at 8am sharp. You'll have to get in and out in less than five minutes. It's best to go in as civilians, two through the front and one through the back so we can hit the armored truck before it leaves at 8:05. One of the cops has been paid off so he'll put in a distress call around that time, drawing the cops away from the bank so it'll be up to me to get us on the highway by the time the truck leaves. We need to avoid McKenzie Blvd because of the holiday parade and farmer's market, so we'll get on the highway through Junction Ave. You want me to jack an ordinary looking car, nothing suspicious, something that blends in, easy to miss. By the time we switch, we'll need to have two other non-suspicious cars, and we'll need to break off into groups. You want me to find those too. You suggest everyone get some sleep. By this time tomorrow, everyone in this room will be 50 thousand dollars richer… Any questions?"

The 19-year-old leaned back in his chair, pushing the headphone back in his ear as he crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced towards Doc to find the older man smirking, "That's my Baby."

…

The nervous guy's name was Rudy. For some reason this came back to the teenager as he stared at the man sitting in the passenger seat, his eye throbbing harshly as he watched the older man clean the blood from his knuckles. The 19-year-old could feel blood sliding down his temple, cheekbone, down his chin, the coppery taste lingering on his lips.

Baby glanced towards the empty parking garage, his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel, his teeth clenched together as he breathed slowly through his nose. This hadn't been the first time one of Doc's groupies had punched him, hell, even Doc smacked him around from time to time… but, it had been the first time it had been unjustified. It'd been the first time Baby had instigated it.

Did he fuck up? Yeah, he did. But had they gotten caught? No. Were they? No. Baby was too smart for that, that's one of the reasons Doc kept him around. He was a quick thinker, and according to the older man, a devil behind the wheel…

The morning hadn't started out well. Like most mornings, it never did. Mainly because sleep never came easy for the teenager. Most nights, he'd stay up listening to music or recording his own, for days on end until he ended up passing out on his bed or the couch. That was the only way he was ever really able to sleep.

The nightmares came back too easily, the memories, and her face looming in his dreams until he woke himself up, trembling, breathing fast, and the anger that flowed through him as he thought about his father. That, and the Tinnitus kept him up most nights.

He'd stopped listening to music while he slept a few years ago after one of the discount shelves on the wall had fallen, knocking Joe from his chair in the middle of the night. Miles hadn't heard it, so he stopped listening to music at night despite Joe insisting he was fine. So, most nights, the 19-year-old didn't sleep.

This morning however, as he was jacking some soccer mom's station wagon while on his way to Doc's, Miles realized that sleeping probably would have been a good idea. He was going on his 4th day without sleep, and it was really starting to affect him. His head was beginning to throb, his muscles aching and despite "Territorial Pissings" by Nirvana blasting through his headphones, the ringing in his ears was still present.

By the time he made it to the garage, he was already two minutes late. He was never late, and Doc was threatening to call the whole thing off… not that the 19-year-old would have minded this. However, this meant that he'd have to come back next week or some other time in order to finish the fucking job, so Miles lied and said the car took a little longer to steal than normal. Doc was pissed.

Something smacked the back of his head and Baby turned, glaring towards Rudy as the guy opened his door, getting out. Once out of the car, the teenager relaxed a little, letting his head fall back against the headrest, his thumb turning up the volume on the same song he was listening to earlier as he watched the man step inside the elevator with the cash. The 19-year-old searched his pockets, pulling out another pair of sunglasses, forcing them on his face, wincing slightly as he stabbed at the bruise covering his right cheekbone.

He let out a small breath as he fumbled for the door handle, stepping out slowly, letting the achiness throbbing through his limbs, the pain enveloping his head swallow him momentarily as he slammed the door shut. He glanced at his reflection in the driver side window. Even with the shades on, you could still make out the dark bruise painting his face, the cut tearing through the upper left part of his lip, blood staining his cheek and chin. Fuck. Joe was going to kill him. Then again, this wouldn't be the first time he came home with some bruises… shit, this wouldn't even be the worst thing he'd come home with.

Baby leaned against the car, pulling his jacket closer as he contemplated the idea of stepping outside to get coffee. It'd been raining… hard, and the idea of forcing his tired body through the cold rain that puddled through the streets in order to obtain four shitty black coffees and give Doc enough time to go over the money, seemed exhausting. But it was his job… or what was left of it.

The 19-year-old pushed the door open, sighing softly as the first rain smacked against his face, washing away the dried blood in small red droplets. He shivered slightly, swallowing against the weight sitting in his stomach as he turned the volume up as high as it would go, repeating the same song over and over.

…Gotta find a way,

A better way,

A better way,

Gotta find a way,

Far away…

Someone slammed into his shoulder and the teenager stumbled slightly, clenching his fingers together tightly as he shoved them inside his pocket. It wouldn't do any good to take out his frustrations on someone… that had happened once, and he was kicked out of school because of it. If it hadn't been for Joe, Baby doubted he would have been able to graduate.

Anger had been an issue with him, mainly because he didn't express it naturally. Most of the time, when he did let go, it was about everything: Doc and his shitty ragtag groupies, the jobs, the money, the shit he had to put up with, Joe's situation, his mom, his dad… there was a lot of anger there. But driving helped. It was his outlet. He wasn't a bad kid, he didn't get into trouble often, and he tried his best to keep Joe from anything that was bothering him… but sometimes, sometimes he lost it.

The teenager sighed again, stepping inside the small coffee shop, looking over the menu, trying to figure out if he wanted to actually order something this time. The adrenaline that plagued him a few minutes ago was starting to fade and the 4th day without sleep was beginning to hit him.

"Can I help you?"

Baby glanced down, smiling at the younger boy at the register, pulling an earbud from his ear, "Uh, yeah. Can I get four coffees… black."

The barista sighed, "Name?"

"Baby," The teenager said, clearing his throat.

The barista stopped writing and glanced up, an eyebrow raised, "Baby?"

"Yeah, B-A-B-Y, Baby."

The barista shook his head muttering, "Whatever."

The teenager placed the earbud back in his ear before leaning against the counter. He knew the name was weird, just like he knew most people seemed almost disgusted with the idea that someone would name their son Baby… or a teenager would go around saying that was his name. But the truth was, he didn't care. Most of the people in his line of work went by some type of nickname. It was easier that way, safer. So was the silence, not that he ever had much to say. Doc was the only one who knew his real name…well, him and Joe. Other than that, everyone just called him Baby, even in high school.

…His headache was beginning to aggravate him, and sleep was weighing heavy in his eyes as he glanced towards the bank. Adrenaline wasn't rushing through his veins like it normally did, and the 19-year-old wondered momentarily if this was really a smart idea. He glanced down at the cigarette burner briefly as the thought of burning himself crossed his mind, biting his bottom lip before looking back up, watching the two girls through the glass. Their guns raised, aimed towards the ceiling and he flipped through his playlist, turning the volume up and drumming along with the music…

Rain was trailing down his face, soaked into his jacket and shirt, and dripping from his hair by the time he reached the garage. It took a few minutes in the elevator to realize he was shivering, and his stomach was starting to bother him. It was his own fault, really. Exhaustion could do things to a person, and yet, he pushed it every time. After he got home, after he made Joe something to eat then he'd sleep, then he'd wake up only to repeat the same damn cycle.

Joe had taken him to a therapist several times a week when he was younger, after the nightmares got worse. But after some talk therapy and an extra dose of melatonin, there wasn't much that could be done. So, Joe pretty much let him stay up. It wasn't like he was doing anything harmful or illegal. Most nights, music was his friend; other nights, television was an outlet. Their downstairs neighbors hated them and complained several times because most of the apartment would vibrate like there was some type of rave going on, but after a while, they stopped coming by.

Baby leaned against the elevator's wall, groaning softly as the cold wall connected with his face. The temperature soothed the now dull throbbing on his face, and he closed his eyes, letting the music filling his ears drown out the constant ringing the best it could. The muscles in his back tensed slightly, the white shirt plastering against his warm chest as it struggled to dry against his shivering body.

…He had taken McKenzie Blvd. The one fucking street Doc had told him not to take. Baby gripped the wheel harder, cursing loudly as he glanced behind them, cops gaining. Adrenaline, suddenly present, coursed through his veins, his breathing speeding up as the guy next to him started yelling, and the teenager slammed on his brakes, pulling onto a side road as he weaved past some bystanders. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…

He opened his eyes as the elevator came to an abrupt stop, the doors sliding open to reveal his three accomplices and Doc. He pushed away from the wall, walking over to the metal table, placing coffee in front of each, his eyes piercing through Rudy behind tinted lenses, pushing his hands in his pocket as the anger he thought he'd lost on the way back, returned.

…The gun pressed against her head as she screamed, and Baby jumped from the car as he tried reaching out to grab it…

Someone grabbed his arm and the 19-year-old stopped, turning towards the person to find Doc giving him a weird look before another hand reached up, pulling the glasses from his face. A blank expression settled over the older man's face, his lips forming a thin pasty line before he dropped the teenager's arm, his eyes fixated on the kid as he took a seat as far away from them as he could.

Baby sat down, fishing out another pair of sunglasses before crossing his arms. One hour. He had about an hour left… then he could go home. Then he was free. He watched the two girls' glance in his direction, laughing slightly before messing with each other's hair. It took the teenager a few minutes to come to the conclusion that they might be together. For some reason, this hadn't become a thought yesterday when one of them had tried flirting with him. Not that any of that bothered him. Hell, Baby had had a few relationships in high school between girls and boys… but nothing serious. It was never serious.

He glanced back towards Rudy to find the older man looking extremely calm for someone who had just murdered someone. Baby swallowed. The first time he witnessed one of Doc's underlings kill someone, he was 13. It had really fucked him up because it had been in cold blood… and he couldn't talk to anyone about it. After that, it had kind of become a numbing sensation to him, a kind of guilt he couldn't explain because although he hadn't pulled the trigger, he felt like he had. Each death hit him… especially, today. Because today, it had been his fault.

"Alright," Doc said, throwing the last pack of money in the bag, zipping it shut, "First things first, who the fuck hit the kid?"

Baby froze, his head still aimed towards Rudy as the whole room suddenly shifted and the girls stopped laughing. Doc had never really cared much if the teenager had gotten hurt… except when he had been sick, forcing himself to drive before making it back to the garage and passing out with a 105 fever. Doc had taken him to the ER then, claiming to be his father, but other than that, he never really asked many questions.

Rudy shrugged his shoulders gradually, glancing back towards the teenager before looking back towards Doc, "Dunno."

The older man nodded slowly, "I see. Kid, I want to hear it from you. Who hit you?"

Rudy jumped out of his chair, the gray plastic smacking loudly against the ground as he reached briefly for the gun the teenager knew was in his coat pocket, "I said, we don't know!"

Doc placed his hands flat on the table, leaning forward, his voice threateningly low as he stared between Rudy and the teenager, "And I said, I wanted to hear it from him. Baby?"

The 19-year-old swallowed slightly, forcing his body up as he pulled a bud from his ear, stepping closer, "No one. Had some trouble getting away, slammed the first car into a pole in a parking garage."

Doc raised an eyebrow as Rudy picked up the chair carefully, his grip loosening around the gun, "That so?"

The older man glanced around the table as everyone nodded. It was an obvious lie, but one everyone would follow. The teenager had never been very good at lying. He always felt guilty, and his tone gave it away; he wasn't sure why, but lying was hard for him, especially when it came to Doc and Joe. Then again, it might have something to do with the cigarette burn on his left shoulder blade from when his father had caught him in a lie when he was 6. Baby stepped forward further, clearing his throat, biting a cough he hoped was just an itch, "Yeah."

"I find it funny that no one else seemed to get hurt except you," Doc said, sliding two bags towards the girls, one towards Rudy. He kept his hand on the fourth in front of him, holding the teenager's gaze for a few minutes before sliding the bag across the table. The 19-year-old stopped it with his hand, his fingers grasping the thin strap tightly. He wanted to push it back, he wanted to tell him to fuck off, that he didn't want this, that he was done. But he couldn't.

A sick feeling twisted in his stomach as he pulled the heavy bag from the table, counting the minutes until Doc would take it back, throw it in the trunk, hand him a thousand and leave. Counting down the minutes he had left until he could leave this life behind… until he was done with Doc for good.

….

When Miles was 16, he had gotten jumped just outside the apartment. Well, a couple blocks from it. He didn't remember much, just that he was on his way back from Doc's, and that it had been raining. Other than that, he didn't really remember anything except bits and pieces.

He remembered waking up in the bathroom at the apartment, but he didn't remember getting there. He remembered blood, everywhere, on the floor, his pants, his shirt, his hands. And he remembered the pain. Crying out as he tried moving, as he tried pushing himself off the floor only to fall back down, smacking against the cold white tile, his head smacking against the tub, and dizzying nausea washing over him. He remembered he couldn't move without wanting to cry or puke or both. Then he remembered Joe's face, swimming in front of him as worried eyes greeted his, warm hands pressed against his chest, something dry pressed against his face. And he remembered Joe frantically asking, What happened?

Then he remembered the darkness.

This memory came back to Miles as the teenager stared at his reflection in the store window across from his apartment. The bruises on his face were nowhere near as bad, not even close, and yet, he knew Joe was still going to ask. Joe was still going to be worried.

The 19-year-old took his sunglasses off, letting the rain above him wash over his tired features welcomingly, wishing the cold water had the power to heal him before stepping foot into the building. But, no such luck. He closed his eyes briefly, pulling his jacket closer, feeling the recorder in his pocket, the iPod in the other.

A car drove past, splashing some water in the teenager's direction and he opened his eyes, and started making his way towards Joe's apartment. The building was old, worn down, and in what the local's liked to describe as a "bad neighborhood." This really hadn't become apparent to either Joe nor the teenager until he had gotten hurt, but they didn't have the money to move. Well, Miles had the money, but Joe refused to take it, and the teenager didn't blame him because he wasn't going to use it either. It was blood money. And it was wrong.

Besides, Miles had grown up here. Well, mostly. He spent the first few years after his parents died, jumping from home to home, through the system. But then he was assigned to Joe… and after that, well, the kid had lived here ever since. And for that, Miles was thankful. Hell, no, he was more than thankful. Because he owed Joe… owed him more than he was able to give him.

The 19-year-old climbed the stairs slowly, counting the steps, clearing his throat as that stupid cough returned, sitting in the back of his throat. He paused momentarily, coughing lightly before continuing, taking the steps two at a time. There was an elevator, but Miles had always like the stairs. He used to run up and down them several times a day when he ran track in school. They lived on the top floor, so it was a nice little work out, and a good way to relieve stress.

He pulled his keys from his pocket as he reached the last step, letting the days stress melt away, letting the memories go, letting what happened go. He pulled his earbuds from his ears, wrapping them around the iPod as he opened the door, shoving them in his pocket as he pulled the cash from the other one. He glanced towards Joe, sitting in front of the television, the reporter talking loudly:

"… A young mother was shot and killed in front of her car today; her young son left unharmed…"

Miles swallowed. He felt sick. Wrong. That woman had died because of him, that mother had died because of him… his mother had died because of him. He knelt down, prying the loose floorboard up, throwing the dirty cash in the small hole before slamming it shut and sitting down, running his hands through his hair.

…Baby had reached the gun just as it had gone off, and he bit back a scream. He stopped breathing momentarily and he glanced towards the car, his eyes connecting with the toddler sitting in the passenger seat waving towards the teenager, unaware of what just happened. The teenager felt his breathing hitch, feeling sick, dizzy, everything foggy and distant. He swallowed, willing his feet to move, following Rudy as the guy busted the window of some beat-up blue Toyota, shoving the teenager into the driver's side.

Baby heard the other doors open, he heard everyone get in, he felt the gun being shoved in his ribs harshly as threats were directed towards him. His fingers automatically pulling down the wires on the car, stripping them, before pushing them together and hearing the car's engine roar to life. He felt the gun press harder as his eyes connected with the rearview mirror, the woman still laying in the street, her blood being washed in red rivers down the road as rain beat around them. Her son had stopped jumping around in the seat and instead had started looking out the window, his hand smacking against the glass. She didn't deserve to die. This was Baby's fault… and she didn't deserve to die.

Anger coursed through the teenager as he gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white, his heart pounding against his chest, the gun still trying to pierce his skin and he felt someone slap the back of his head. Baby felt his fist connecting with someone's jaw, his other hand forcing the barrel of the gun up towards the window as a shot went off before he realized what he'd done. Ringing pierced his left ear and he winced, slamming his hand over his ear as he tried to focus on anything except the pain spreading through his head. He felt someone's fist collide with his face, his head smacking against the glass and the taste of blood filling his mouth before the gun returned to his ribs…

The teenager sighed, biting his bottom lip as he glanced up to find Joe watching him, his chair still sitting in front of the television but the news no longer playing in the background. Miles swallowed, forcing his tired body to stand. He stretched slowly before glancing towards the kitchen then back towards Joe.

You hungry? The teenager signed. Joe nodded cautiously, Always.

The 19-year-old snorted slightly, smirking, he made his way into the kitchen, pulling down the bread and peanut butter. They had other things to eat in the kitchen but for some reason PB&J's were Joe's favorite… and they were easy to make which was good because the teenager wasn't very good when it came to cooking. He glanced up, seeing Joe waving towards him and Miles rolled his eyes playfully, I know, Joe. To the edges.

Joe smirked, pausing briefly before waving towards him again, What happened to your face?

Miles shrugged faintly, pressing the sandwich together and grabbing an apple on the counter. He grabbed the plate, and walked over to Joe, kneeling down slowly and handing him the food. Joe set it down next to him, his eyes tracing over the bruise painting the kid's face, the cut still slightly bleeding. The kid shrugged again, It's nothing. I did something stupid.

Joe frowned, I don't want anything bad to happen.

I won't let anything bad happen to you, Miles signed before flipping the apple from behind his back to his front, smiling slightly. He waited for Joe to reach out and grab it before throwing it back to his other hand, where he waited for his guardian to reach for it again. Joe waved him off and Miles handed the fruit over, before making an attempt to stand. He stopped when Joe grabbed his wrist and he turned back, kneeling again.

I'm not talking about me, Joe signed, reaching out and brushing his fingers over the swelling black and blue flesh. Miles swallowed, the sick feeling from earlier returning. He had heard this a few times growing up, the first when he was 15… but the truth was, it was weird every time. Weird that someone cared enough to say that to him because all he cared about was making sure nothing bad happened to Joe. Other than that, he didn't really care what happened to himself. Joe's fingers lingered for a few minutes, his eyebrows drawing together slightly, You're really warm.

Confusion crossed the teenager's face as he signed, I'm fine. Just tired.

Truth be told, he didn't really feel fine, but he wasn't about to display that information to Joe. He'd only worry. And besides, it wasn't something that couldn't be solved with a few hours of sleep. If he was lucky to get any tonight.

Miles stood slowly before sitting down in the chair next to Joe. He crossed his arms as he stared towards the television, letting the loud noise of some old 90s movie fill his ears. Normally, he'd have a record going, blasting through the whole apartment, but after today, he didn't really feel like it. His headache was beginning to worsen, and the adrenaline he felt rushing through him earlier had completely disappeared, leaving his aching limbs feeling heavy and slow. Everything was beginning to feel heavy and slow. Not to mention, he still felt sick from earlier… from watching…

The 19-year-old flinched slightly as he felt a hand smack his arm gently and he turned towards Joe. Joe was giving him a weird look, Your clothes are wet.

The teenager sat there for a few minutes as he tried to piece together this information. And it took several minutes longer than it should have for him to realize he was shivering, and as Joe had pointed out, his clothes were indeed wet. His jacket, shirt, and jeans felt plastered against his skin. And he was having a hard time recalling why but after glancing out the window he remembered he had been at the garage, he had gotten coffee in the rain, and then walked home… but he forgot to change like he had planned.

He groaned slightly as he stood, balancing himself against the chair for a second as he smiled towards Joe, feeling the older man's eyes watching him. He flicked the light on in his room, wincing slightly as the bright fluorescent pierced through his skull, and closed the door halfway, tugging the jacket and white shirt over his head in one swift action. He threw them on the floor, letting them hit the ground with a loud smack before grabbing a towel from the hamper and drying his hair, surprised that it was still pretty damp.

The 19-year-old glanced at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes dancing over the small scars painting his chest from the wreck, and the other lesser obvious ones, from his father. He sighed loudly, changing into some old sweatpants that were laying on the ground, pulling the light switch, and flopped back on his bed. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table before pulling his arms behind his head. It was barely 8pm.

He knew Joe would knock his door in a while, and when he didn't open it, Joe would come in to see if he was alright. Honestly, Miles wasn't really sure if he was or not. He couldn't get the images from earlier out of his head, he couldn't get the image of her out of his head, and the sick feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach wouldn't go away. He didn't want to fall asleep because odds were, he wasn't in for any pleasant dreams… but he really need some sleep.

…..

He groaned loudly, wincing as he tried moving his hand, as he tried to remember… but everything was gone. All he had left was the light hanging above him painted in red, and the loud shrill sound piercing his ears…

"Baby?"

He jerked his head up as something moved, the distant sound of someone calling him and his eyes connected with his mother's. She smiled at him, reaching a bloody hand towards him, and he tried moving his arm, tried moving his hand to grasp hers but he couldn't. His body would cooperate, his mind was foggy and slow. He watched her hand drop, brushing against his leg as he glanced up at her again; her head fell forward, and the 7-year-old screamed as he tried moving. His voice failing to reach his ears but his throat burning from the sound, tears falling from his eyes harshly.

Something slammed behind him and his whole body jerked, his eyes connecting briefly with his father's body. The blood splattered against the window, something long and sharp piercing his chest, his face contorted into a bloody frown that would last forever. He glanced towards his mother again, screaming once more as he tried moving, tried reaching towards her. But something slammed behind him again, and black replaced all the red. And silence replaced ringing…

When the 19-year-old jerked awake at 4am, he became painfully aware of several things. Firstly, he was shivering, his breathing coming to him in harsh sporadic waves as he tried calming himself down. Secondly, the sleep he had gotten had been barely minimal. And thirdly, he felt worse than he had before he passed out.

Miles laid there, swallowing thickly as he stared at the ceiling above him, watching the lights from cars driving past outside dancing on the white plaster. He cleared his throat, letting his mind come down from the memories on its own, letting his heartbeat even out on its own. He listened to the silence surrounding him, listening for Joe before realizing, fortunately, the older man was still asleep. Not that he would have heard him screaming if the teenager had been doing that in his sleep… but Joe had always been good about that and instituted an open-door policy when Miles was younger. But he was almost 20-years-old now, and he didn't need to run to Joe and make the older man sit up with him as he discussed the nightmares that still haunted him. He wasn't 10 anymore.

The teenager coughed harshly, wincing as the rough sound vibrated through his chest, making it to his head and starting the ringing echoing in his ears, and he groaned. He sat up, forcing his elbow to his mouth, and his legs over the edge of the bed as he coughed again, the ringing increasing, and he bit back another wince. The Tinnitus was always worse when he did something to set if off… like moving too fast, or coughing.

He cleared his throat again, running a hand over the back of his neck, trying to rub the pain shooting up his shoulders, his neck and through his head. He glanced up, his eyes meeting his reflection once more, pale blue eyes greeting him, sitting in an even paler face despite the black eye covering the right side. He grimaced.

The 19-year-old's stomach twisted, and he swallowed, pushing himself up from the old bed, stumbling slightly, his shoulder connecting with the blue wall forcefully, and Miles paused. He closed his eyes, letting the dizziness pass as he listened, hoping, praying that Joe hadn't woken up despite being in the next room. After a few minutes, Miles let out a sigh of relief, thankful his foster father hadn't felt the vibrations, and he opened his eyes, giving himself time to readjust as he stood up straighter.

He shivered slightly as the cold air in the apartment pricked his naked chest as he walked out into the living area. His hand hovered on Joe's doorknob and he grinned, closing the open door somewhat before walking over to the desk in the corner and sitting down. He coughed again and opened the curtains, letting the streetlight across from them fill the room as he leaned his head back against the chair.

His head was killing him, and his stomach felt nauseated, but he didn't want to go back in his room, back to his bed, back to those dreams… back to everything. Not yet. His eyes drifted towards the many iPods he had lined up next to the desk, and he reached for one, letting his fingers dust over the broken white one he'd had with him the day of the wreck… the day she died. The iPod had never worked the same since and eventually stopped working all together… then again, he felt like he'd never really worked the same since either.

The teenager reached for another iPod, jamming the headphones in the jack and pressing play before shoving them in his ears. He closed his eyes slowly, crossing his arms over his chest slightly as the cold air that had hit him a few minutes ago turned warm and muggy, sitting lightly against his skin. He felt sweat beginning to bead on his face and wiped his forehead on his shoulder before resting his head behind him once more.

….

…He felt his eyes drifting, darting all over the road, glancing at signs, people, lights, anything and everything to stay open. His body was beginning to feel sluggish, his mind hovering in a dizzying exhaustion as he pressed the gas pedal harder, trying to remember which road he was supposed to take. Lights flashed behind him as the cops started tailing the van, and Rudy shifted in his seat, trying his best to stay calm.

The teenager's breathing was starting to even out, his eyes beginning to close as he realized he was losing his battle against a tired body. As he realized he couldn't focus, he wasn't driving like normal, the adrenaline that normally amped him up every gig, was gone, and no volume of fast paced music was going to keep him awake.

His fingers ghosted over the cigarette lighter, pressing the small device, waiting for the thing to glow as he shook his head slowly, trying to keep his focus. The cops were following… close, and normally, Baby would have already lost them… but today, today, everything was off. He felt off.

He grabbed the lighter, his stomach twisting in knots, and he heard one of the girls ask if he was having a smoke before jamming the searing circle against his wrist. He cursed inwardly, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his wrist throbbing harshly as he forced the device back in the slot and hit reverse.

"You're one crazy motherfucker, you know that, kid?" Rudy yelled, holding a hand against the handle above the door as the car flew around the cops. Baby grit his teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain on his wrist and glanced over to his right as two more cop cars rounded the corner. At least he was awake now, so getting away was going to be much easier.

This wasn't the first time the teenager had done something stupid to keep himself alert and it probably would be the last. When he was 12, during his 7th race, one of his teammates told him that if he chugged 3 cans of monster, he'd stay awake. Turns out the kid had been right, and Miles had won the race, but he ended up puking his guts out and passing out the second he crossed over the finish line. The second time he'd been 14, waiting on two guys to come running out of some shitty east-end retailer, and burned himself on one of the guy's lighters in order to keep himself awake. The next day, his social worker had made a surprise visit and accused Joe of harming him in some way. Miles finally convinced her he'd been messing with a friend's lighter and that Joe would never do anything to hurt him, which was true. Ever since then, he stuck to coffee… except today.

He had taken McKenzie Blvd. The one fucking street Doc had told him not to take. Baby whipped the car around a corner, weaving past some bystanders, and flipped it in reverse. Two of the cops crashed into each other, the lights flashing as another car hit them from behind. The girls in the back started screaming, Rudy started laughing and Baby glanced to the left, seeing a Passover not too far off…

He felt a hand on his forehead, then his cheek, then someone tapping his shoulder gently. He groaned inwardly as he forced his eyes open to bright light that stabbed at his eyes, before closing them quickly. He swallowed, realizing the sick feeling from last night was still there, heavier than before, and odds were, he was sick.

The 19-year-old coughed softly, running a hand through his hair as he opened his eyes again and it took him several long minutes of staring at the old gray fabric, that he had somehow made it to the couch last night. He didn't remember walking over here, but he remembered starting to fall asleep at the desk. His fingers were still grasped around the iPod clasped in his hand even though the small device had probably stopped playing music a few hours ago. And judging by the sunlight filtering in through the room, Miles guessed he'd been asleep for a while. Though he felt like he hadn't slept.

Someone tapped his shoulder again and Miles blinked up, his eyes connecting with Joe. The teenager smirked slightly, forcing his body up on arms that detested the action, forcing his body into a mostly sitting position. Joe smiled, You awake?

The teenager nodded slowly, stopping a cough sitting at the back of his throat. He was normally the one asking Joe that question and it felt weird being the other way around. He ran another hand through is hair, stopping slightly to rub the tension in the back of his neck as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost noon. Shit. He'd slept way longer than he normally did… and Joe was probably hungry.

Joe started backing his chair away before pausing, waving towards the kid's direction. Miles glanced up as he pulled the headphones from his ears, noticing for the first time, that the television was on. Joe had been up for a while.

You hungry? Joe signed, his eyes glancing over the teenager's pale features. If he was being honest, he knew the kid was sick… or at least, felt bad. Miles never slept past 8am unless something was wrong; this was something Joe had come to learn over the years. Along with the fact that the kid would deny any sense of illness or injury until he couldn't hide it any longer. This was something that had caused Joe a lot of worried nights and several trips to the ER.

The 19-year-old shrugged, pulling himself to his feet slowly as Joe waved towards him again, I'm going to make a sandwich. I'll make you one too. You should eat something.

The teenager felt himself starting to object, but Joe had already turned towards the kitchen. Honestly, he wasn't hungry. The idea of putting anything in his stomach made him more nauseated than he already was… but there was some truth behind Joe's words. He should eat something. Especially since he'd forgotten to eat last night.

He shivered slightly as he glanced towards the open windows, the cool breeze flowing in past the screen and looked back towards the kitchen where Joe was pulling out some bread. The teenager coughed roughly as he walked towards his room, opening the bedroom door further, grabbing an old shirt off the floor and shoving it over his head. He paused briefly, picking up the burner phone on the nightstand and flipped it open, frowning as Doc's number showed up under missed calls… twice.

He pressed his forefingers to the bridge of his nose hoping to relieve the pressure building there as he debated whether to call him back. He didn't want to, but he needed to. It was too earlier for another job considering they'd just finished one yesterday, but that didn't mean Doc didn't want to recon another possible target. He was always looking for new targets. And that was part of the teenager's job.

There was a noise at his door, and Miles turned to find Joe pushing the door open a little further. He glanced towards the phone in his hand then back towards the kid's face, a disapproving look washing over his features momentarily. The teenager flipped it close before setting it back down on the nightstand.

Sandwich, Joe signed, gesturing for Miles to follow.

….

Joe peered into the teenager's room once more, watching for a few minutes as the kid shifted to his stomach, his left arm hanging dangerously off the edge of the bed, his left foot pressed against the ground. The older man shook his head, slightly amused. The 19-year-old was too lanky, too tall for the same bed he'd had since he was 10, but he detested the idea of Joe buying him another one. Mainly because he knew they didn't have a whole lot of money.

Joe sighed, his attention drawn to the phone on the nightstand as it lit up, the small device vibrating around, and the older man reached for it, grabbing it tightly as he saw Doc's name flash across the screen. Anger and hate flooded Joe's senses as he glared at the name, wheeling himself away from Miles door as he made his way back into the living room. If he had the words, if he had the voice, he'd answer and tell Doc to go to hell.

Truth was, Joe hated that man more than any other person on the planet, he hated that Miles worked for him… and he hated that he was the reason he'd started. The phone stopped vibrating and Joe glanced down to see the screen had gone black, and he let out a breath. He knew that if he told Miles he knew the real reason he'd jacked that bastard's car when he was 9, he knew the real reason the kid had agreed to the arrangement… not that he had much of a choice… the 19-year-old would feel worse than he already felt. Because deep down, Joe knew Miles had stolen Doc's car because of him. And teenager didn't Joe to know that.

When Miles was 9, they'd been short on money. His case worker had told Joe that if he couldn't find another job after he lost the one at the station, within a few months, that they would need to find a more suitable living arrangement for the boy. Joe had understood. He didn't want them to take the kid back because they had started forming a relationship, Miles had started opening up, started making more progress than he had any other foster family… but Joe understood. Miles didn't. He was just a boy. And he had tried to help. His heart had been in the right place, like it always was. Because he was a good kid. He'd just gotten into some trouble.

Joe sighed again, putting the phone on the table next to him as it started vibrating again. He glanced towards the television, trying to concentrate on the shitty lifetime movie playing in front of him, his eyes constantly wandering towards the 19-year-old's open door. A shiver ran down his spine as he glanced back towards the movie.

The thing was, silence wasn't a comfort to him. Despite being born deaf, he hated silence mainly because it meant something was wrong… and it felt foreign to him. Honestly, he hadn't realized how silent his life had been until he met his wife, a few years after he was released from jail.

His father had owned a music store when he was younger, and after his death, Joe had taken over, making money on vinyl, guitars, drums, pianos, any instrument really. People used to come into the store, smile on their faces, ask him about the latest music but very few knew he couldn't hear it… well, not like most people. He listened to the vibrations. He loved the vibrations, each chord, each instrument, each voice having a different frequency. He grew up with music; hell, he grew up in the age of rock n' roll, so it was hard not to love it.

Then he'd met his wife. Her name was Janie Rose. Joe had always joked and told her her name was that of a musician. She'd always wave him off. They'd met at a party, back when Joe could still dance. Shortly after that, they got married.

They had always wanted kids. But those were different times, darker times, and they were having trouble conceiving, so Janie had started mentoring troubled youths outside her job. She was a school teacher, kindergarten. And Joe had his store. And for a while, life was good. The music was good.

It was true, the 70s had brought on a new aspect of life for them. A better future. A more hopeful tomorrow. But even that hadn't lasted long, and on the eve of the cold war, there had been an accident. Joe lost his legs… and he had lost her.

After that, his life was silent for a long time. He closed the shop, selling the rest of his records at discount prices, and moved to this side of town. And for a while, all he had was himself. Years went by, and eventually he took a job at the precinct a few blocks over, bookkeeping, organizing files, cases, keeping to himself until he decided to start volunteering at the youth shelter on 3rd Ave. Truth was, he was still searching for some aspect of his wife… something that meant she was still here with him… but she had been dead for some time by then.

Then he met Miles. His case worker had reached out to Joe, wanting to know how he felt about fostering a troubled youth after all his years mentoring them. It had been an interesting idea. He liked kids but wanting to have them had been a dream he shared with his wife, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to make that step on his own. But he agreed.

Miles was a troubled kid. The homes were having a hard time placing him. He had health issues due to the Tinnitus, and the doctors thought he'd lose his hearing by the time he reached 30. The kid was quiet, he didn't play much with the other kids, and he had nightmares. Not to mention, some of his previous homes had reported the kid would steal from them… but after he came to live with Joe, the older man quickly called bullshit. Miles was a good kid.

They had bonded over music. Miles loved any kind, and Joe liked the vibrations. On his second visit, Joe had brought the boy an iPod he'd gotten at the second-hand shop down the street, noticing his other one was smashed and broken. He had the neighbor next door record all the classics on it, and the kid had been delighted that Joe had done that. That was the first time he'd smiled in a long time. The first time Joe heard the music again.

Yeah, it's true. Miles wasn't always easy to raise, but what kid was? It didn't help that Joe was deaf and wheelchair bound. But the kid was patient, and he picked up on ASL quickly. He always did well in school despite being at Doc's beckon call every few weeks, and he rarely got in trouble. No doubt, there had been a few instances like when Miles was 17 and had gotten drunk at a party, or when he was 15 and he got arrested, or when he was 14 and his appendix had burst, and Joe had to take him to the hospital. Those instances freaked him out, mainly because Joe felt like he had no idea what he was doing. He felt like a failure.

But then, there were other times like when Miles was 16 and he'd gotten kicked out of school for defending another kid, or when he was 12 and he'd won his first track race, or when he was 18 and he'd graduated from high school; those moments, those proud moments, made Joe feel like he had done something right. And those moments, no matter how small, outweighed the other ones. And they made him miss his wife the most, because he would have someone to share those moments with. Hell, even this moment, would be better to share with someone because at least Joe would have a distraction.

He needed a distraction; the silence surrounding him was too deafening. Normally, the 19-year-old would have a record going, blaring off the walls, dancing around or making his own music at his desk. Or, he'd just sit with Joe, flipping through the channels at an annoyingly fast pace, joking with Joe about something he'd done earlier, or sometimes, rarely, he'd open up. He'd tell Joe about what happened with Doc knowing the older man would never tell a living soul. Joe treasured those moments because he knew Miles trusted him… and Joe would never do anything to break that. So, the silence around him now wasn't a comfort, because it wasn't normal… it was a reminder.

Miles had gotten down half his sandwich before his stomach rebelled, and he found himself puking in the bathroom. Joe had known the kid was sick, he'd just been hoping that the low-grade fever would be as worse as it got; turns out he was wrong. And it took about an hour for the kid to finally emerge from the bathroom, apologizing for an illness that wasn't his fault. After that, he'd collapsed on his bed, trying to still convince Joe all he need was some sleep. But nonetheless, he accepted the ibuprofen Joe gave him before passing out.

The kid had always apologized. Every time he was sick or hurt; it didn't matter if he had a broken arm or a 105 fever, because he still tried to convince Joe everything was alright. It was almost admirable. The thing is, Joe knew Miles did it because he didn't want Joe to worry, to fuss… because Joe was normally the one who needed help. But what the kid didn't seem to understand was, it's okay to ask for help. Because it would save Joe a whole hell of a lot of worrying.

The older man glanced at the clock on the wall, running a tired hand over his white hair. The 19-year-old had been asleep a good portion of the day and it was rounding 11pm. The fact that the kid seemed insanely tired was almost alarming considering he went to bed early yesterday. But Joe knew Miles didn't sleep well. And part of that was Doc's fault. The kid had nightmares about his mom, his dad, the accident, about what he'd witnessed with Doc… and Joe could help him with that. Miles was just shy of 20, he was still a kid… and he'd already seen too much bloodshed for someone so young. And Joe couldn't save him from that, no matter how much he wanted too.

….

The world around him was hot. Fuck, no, it was burning. The air was sitting heavy against his skin and Miles groaned loudly, trying to force the blue comforter from his body weakly. His limbs felt slow and uncoordinated, uncooperative with the fevered haze clouding his mind, and he blinked slowly, trying his best to clear his vision. He took a shallow breath, forcing his body up as his stomach lurched and he paused as the room tilted violently. The covers sitting around him felt like dead weight, rough, itchy and uncomfortable weight, pressing against his already overheated body.

His feet pressed against cold ground, dizzying nausea washing over him, and the 19-year-old tried to even out his breathing as he stood. His room swirled in a mass of dark blues and grays, and his body shifted, and he fell, slamming against the wall of his childhood bedroom. Pain connected with his shoulder, his head smacking against the wooden wall, and he groaned again, pressing his forehead harder against the cool wall, thankful that despite the pain, the temperature felt nice against his burning skin. He blinked several times, his vision wavering, sweat falling down his face as he tried pushing away.

His legs shook harshly, his knees buckling as he slid against the blue paper and he soon found himself sitting against the wall. He pressed his head back against the wood, letting out several heavy breaths; his breathing coming in harsh sporadic waves to an aching chest and a pounding heart. He was having a hard time staying conscious, a harder time trying to focus, and he wished Joe could hear him. Not that his foster father would be able to do much to help, but he'd at least try.

The 19-year-old whimpered slightly as he pulled himself up, running his hand along the doorframe, grasping onto the white plaster. His body protested the action, and he tried walking, tried standing up straighter but he'd only made it a few steps out his bedroom door before he realized he was having a hard time standing on his own. He swallowed, squinting slightly, trying to mentally prepare himself as he pressed a sweaty hand against the light switch. He didn't want to turn the lights on; hell, even the light filling the living room from the open curtains outside was already too much. His headache was worse, spreading across his whole face, eating away at the bone in his jaw, pulsating under his black eye, screaming over the bridge of his nose, so turning on the light was going to be torture. But he needed to see, he hoped the light would keep his vision from being so distorted, help him figure some things out. Because something, something was wrong. He felt wrong. He was too hot.

Miles groaned as his body fell against the wall behind him, his back aching as he hit the plaster harshly, his vision wavering as the lights flicked on, filling the living room with harsh light. His body slid against the rough wall slightly, sweat running down his face as his legs refused to hold him up any longer. Heat enveloped his body and the teenager let out a ragged breath as thick hot oxygen filled his lungs, making it hard to concentrate on the twisting space around him. The things he could grasp in his vision, the television, the record player, the kitchen, all swirling violently, and he gagged, pressing a shaking hand against the wall strongly for support.

His knees buckled, gravity forcing him to the ground firmly, his knees smacking against the floor as his hand meshed against the fake wooden floorboards, and the 19-year-old let out a strangled cry. His shoulder was pressed against the wall, the splintering wood digging into the flesh slightly and the teenager glanced up, his vision wavering again as something loud echoed around him, the ringing in his ears deafening. Miles winced, pressing an ear against his shoulder as he fought the urge to grasp his ears, the piercing shrill sound causing tears to well in his eyes and he shut them tightly, waiting for the noise to die down.

He shivered, nausea coursing through his body as saliva filled his mouth, pooling from his cracked lips as he struggled to take in another shallow hot breath. And he coughed, the rough sound hurting his chest, his throat, his stomach lurching violently, and the 19-year-old clenched his teeth together as someone's voice reached his ears. He stilled, the hot air against his skin momentarily forgotten as confusion crossed his face, and he opened his eyes slowly. Joe couldn't talk, so why was he hearing voices?

Miles glanced to his left, groaning again as he saw Doc and the three accomplices from earlier sitting at the table a few feet away. The teenager's arm gave out and he fell further against the wall, his eyes fixed on Doc, who stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed, a disappointing look masking his features. Sweat dripping from the 19-year-old's chin, soaking through his shirt as he pressed his back against the wall, using it as a lever as he forced his body up on legs that refused to stand.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Baby," Doc said, his arms tightening around his chest as he watched as the teenager staggered closer. Miles stumbled, catching himself on a chair as he looked around the table, shaking his head slightly as he glanced back towards the older man, "The j-job-"

"Is never done, Baby. Or did you think you were going to skip out on me? Perhaps I need to remind you about our little arrangement," Doc said, stepping closer. Rudy snickered, slamming his gun on the table and Miles glanced at it. Blood was splattered across the table, the gun painted in red and the teenager looked down at his own clothes, finding them too painted in dark crimson. Blood was pooling down his hands, a gun at his feet and he glanced to his left to see the young mother from earlier, her eyes lifeless and cold, fixed on him; the toddler crying loudly as he reached for her, but she was already dead. He jerked his head back up, letting out a harsh breath as his eyes connected with Doc, blood dripping from his face, a gun in his hand.

Miles shook his head, his knees shaking violently as he started backing away. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't focus. The air around him was almost unbreathable, and the fire burning against his skin was making it hard to move, hard to think properly. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He stumbled back, falling against the garage floor, his stomach churning harshly, and he turned retching loudly as bile spewed past his lips, and he choked. His hand shook, the cigarette burn searing against his wrist, as he brought it to his lips, wiping the sweat and vomit from his mouth the best he could as he grasped onto the table next to him, bringing his body upright, his head swimming with questions his lips couldn't form.

Doc stepped closer, and Miles swallowed loudly as he did his best to straighten his crumpling posture. Doc had never pulled a gun on him. The 19-year-old backed up slowly, his sweat drenched shirt sticking against his chest, his pulse racing as he pressed the back of his head against the wall forcefully, his eyes fixated on Doc's cold ones. He breathed loudly, his stomach struggling against him as his body pitched forward once more, and Miles clenched his mouth shut, refusing to retch, refusing to look weaker than he already was.

The 19-year-old's head pounded, the pulsating ache in rhythm with his heartbeat as he let out a small whimper, his body trying to bring him down as he forced himself to stay vertical, to stay conscious. Ringing filled his ears again and the teenager winced, pressing an ear against his shoulder once more as his eyes wildly searched for a distraction, for comfort, for his music, for something that could help him, or explain how the fuck he ended up in this situation.

"You said, nothing bad would happen," Doc growled, stepping forward further, and Miles tried to press his back harder against the wall, hoping to use it as a way to straighten his stance, to put him at his full height. To look bigger than he was. But his head swam again, the room around him spinning, and he closed his eyes, banging his head against the wall behind him as he grasped at the doorframe harder, forcing himself to stay up.

There was another shrill sound echoing in his ears again and Miles slammed his head against the wall once more, opening his eyes as he tried ignoring the piercing in his ears. He needed his music. He needed something. Anything. Anyone. He needed Joe. He needed an explanation. He swallowed thickly, glancing back towards Doc to find the older man had step back a few feet, the gun still clenched calmly in his hand.

"Found him, boss," Rudy yelled, and Miles looked to his right, anger rising through him as the guy came walking back into the garage kicking towards Joe as the elderly man wheeled in slowly. His guardian glanced towards him, worry sitting on his face before dissolving and replaced by disgust, hatred, resentment. The teenager's eyes dusted over Joe's face, clenching his fist momentarily as he noticed the bruises and blood coating his face and clothes. They'd beat him.

Doc made a noise and Miles jerked his head up towards him, pushing himself away from the wall, standing as tall as he could manage against the swaying room. He clenched his fists again, sucking in a shallow breath as he struggled to take in the heavy air, his hands releasing a second later as he realized he didn't have the strength, he was weak. He wouldn't be able to fight Doc if the older man lunged, so he'd have to play this smart.

"You told him nothing bad would happen to him," Doc said, grabbing the elderly man's head and pressing the barrel of the gun to Joe's temple. Miles screamed, lunging forward but his knees buckled, and he smacked against the cold ground, his body no longer allowing him upright, tears spilling down his face as he pleaded. Doc watched him, his calm, collected features shifting slightly as Rudy laughed loudly behind them.

"Please, Doc, please," The teenager yelled, reaching a hand towards them as Doc smirked, "Tell him, Baby. Tell him, you won't let anything bad happen to him."

Miles glared, tears stilling in his eyes, streaming down his face as he struggled to raise his hands. Joe's eyes were fixed on him, tears sitting in his eyes as hatred filled his features. The teenager took a shallow breath, wiping away the sweat dripping in his eyes as something moved to his right and he paused momentarily, feeling his body swaying, feeling the ground beneath him moving as he struggled to remember where he was, as he tried to remember why it was so fucking hot…

A gun went off, and Miles jerked his head up, screaming again as blood splattered against the cement wall, the metal table, sliding down Doc's face as the teenager stared in horror at the empty chair. He cried loudly, trying his best to push himself from the ground, pressing his hands against the burning floor, his arms lacking the strength to push himself up all the way. He let out a choked whimper, tears streaming down his face, heat burning through his body, plastered against his chest as the shirt that had been drenched in sweat, boiled against his skin.

Doc came closer, cleaning some of the blood off his gun as he knelt down next to him, tilting his chin upward, before shaking his head disapprovingly, "You fucked up, kid. You lied to Joe, tried to keep him safe… but bad things happen when you break deals. When you cross people. When you fuck up. Your mother knew that better than anyone."

Miles winced, pushing Doc away weakly as he eyed him, his stomach clenching tightly, "You better kill me. Because if you don't, I'm coming after you."

Doc smirked, "That's my Baby."

Miles swallowed, nausea twisting up his throat, his movements weak and uncoordinated as his body fell back against the wall weakly. The barrel of the gun pressed against his temple harshly and the 19-year-old closed his eyes, letting the cold metal soothe against his burning flesh. He didn't have it in him to fight, to stand, to grab the gun. He felt too tired, too sick, too gone, too hot. And he knew this life would kill him one day, so it was only poetic. Besides, if Joe was gone, and Joe's death was on his hands too… then he couldn't live with that. He wouldn't.

The gun clicked back, and teenager waited, listening to the bullet pushing into the chamber, the ringing in his ears pulsing, his heart beating rapidly. He coughed roughly, sucking in a hot breath as the fire that filled his veins burned his body from the inside out, and he felt a cold hand press against his face. Then he heard the gun go off.

Something bright flashed across his face and Miles winced, his eyes opening slightly, the room spinning in a harsh combination of colors and he cried out. He grasped at something tightly, his face pressed against something else, burning fire eating away at his skin, and he felt gentle fingers run through his hair. He groaned, feeling tears still washing down his cheeks, sitting in his eyes as he opened them again, resisting the urge to close them this time.

His stomach heaved and he coughed, swallowing quickly as he felt someone's hand grasp his chin, forcing his face up, and Miles let out a choked cry as he eyes connected with Joe's worried face. Tears spilt from his eyes and the 19-year-old choked again, realizing he was sitting on the ground, his back pressed against the wall, his face pressed against Joe's knee, and he was shaking.

"I'm sorry, Joe, I'm sorry," Miles cried, trying to pull his arm to his chest, trying to sign as he glanced towards Joe again. The older man shook his head, alarm and worry set in his eyes as he glanced over the kid's pale features, his fingers still resting comfortingly in the teenager's dirty blonde hair. He was too hot, the 19-year-old was too hot, his fever was too high, and if Joe couldn't get him up, couldn't get him to cool off, then his only hope would be the neighbor next door who could call 911.

Joe grasped the teenager's forearm harshly, pulling upward, hoping Miles was coherent enough to recognize what Joe wanted him to do. His fingers slipped slightly as he realized that the kid was covered in sweat, and Joe readjusted his grip, one hand clasped around his forearm, the other reaching for his waist, and Joe grit his teeth as he felt his back starting to hurt against the strain. Miles wasn't a heavy kid, in fact, he had always been under-weight, but Joe was reaching his 70's now and trying to get the 19-year-old to stand, was harder than it used to be.

Miles struggled, his whole-body resisted moving, and it took him several long minutes of Joe tugging upward before the teenager realized what Joe wanted him to do. Stand. He wanted him to stand. The teenager pressed a hand against the wall, his vision wavering, the room contorting into the garage briefly, and Miles stumbled, one of his legs buckling and he slammed his knee against the ground harshly, biting his bottom lip as he refrained from crying out.

Joe grasped his hand, pulling it upward, putting it on the armrest of his chair, leaning over once more as he grasped the kid's waist, pulling again. Miles nodded, glancing towards Joe, giving him a weak smile, and Joe knew the teenager understood what he wanted. He understood… but wanted Joe to give him a minute.

The older man glanced towards the bathroom then back towards his foster son as the 19-year-old struggled again, pulling his whole body up this time, his hand still firmly pressed against Joe's chair, and Joe let out a soft breath. He kept a hand around the kid's waist, knowing that if Miles did fall, there wasn't much Joe would be able to do about it. He wasn't as strong as he used to be… and Joe felt guilty for that because he knew that made Miles act 10 times stronger. And he couldn't help the kid when he needed him most.

The older man stole a glance back towards the teenager as he slowly wheeled them towards the bathroom. The black bruise still looked foreign on him, alien, and the cut had started bleeding, blood trailing down the 19-year-old's pale chin, dripping on his shirt, the floor. Joe swallowed. The last time he had really been able to hold the kid up was when he was 16, when he got jumped. The whole ordeal had freaked Joe out more than he had let on, because the kid was in pain, so much fucking pain, and there was so much blood. Three broken ribs, a broken arm, sprained ankle, not to mention the bruises, contusions and the mild concussion the teenager had; Joe had been surprised the kid had even made it up the stairs on his own, and if Joe hadn't noticed the blood smeared on the wall, he doubted he would have found the kid in the bathroom before he passed out.

The 19-year-old stumbled again, and Joe tightened his grip, groaning lightly as he reached for the bathroom door, slamming it open; his fingers smacking against the light switch. Miles jerked away slightly, and Joe glanced towards him again to find the kid had covered his eyes, and Joe felt guilty. He wanted to flip the lights, to turn them off again to help ease the kid's pain but he needed to be able to see what he was doing. The older man reached for the faucet on the tub, releasing his grasp around the teenager's waist, turning the shower on with one hand as he felt the temperature with the other. He needed to bring his fever down.

Miles groaned, his legs feeling like jelly, his head swimming and the bright florescent lights that pierced his skull wasn't helping. He felt Joe's fingers pull at his shirt, and Miles forced his fingers from his eyes slowly, wincing as the light hit them and glanced down quickly as Joe tugged at his shirt again. The 19-year-old blinked several times as Joe's face swam in front of him, his mind trying desperately to make out what his foster father was signing to him, but his mind was foggy and muddled, mush, and Joe suddenly had 4 hands instead of two.

Joe tugged again before pulling the soiled shirt up slightly, and the teenager swallowed against the sick feeling washing over him as he reached for his shirt, tugging at it lightly. He winced, his stomach lurching again as he forced the blue material up and over his head, his mind reeling from the sudden movement and he felt dizzy, hot, disoriented, wrong. His legs gave out as he dropped the shirt, his hand leaving the edge of Joe's chair, Joe's fingers brushing against his chest as he tried to stop the teenager from stumbling backwards, his leg catching on the edge of the tub, and he fell.

His back slammed against the white porcelain tub, his arms bringing down several bottles of shampoo, and Miles bit back another wince as pain hit his body. His mind reeled and he tried lifting his head as lukewarm water washed over him, but he didn't have the energy. Instead he let his body relax, his legs hanging off the side of the tub, his head leaning against the opposite side as the water above him washed over the fire burning against his skin. There had been more graceful ways to step in the shower, but apparently his body had forgotten that… or maybe he had forgotten that. Besides, laying weirdly in the tub felt better, his head felt better that it did when he was standing.

The 19-year-old heard a noise and he mustered enough energy to crack an eye open, to find Joe watching him, worry etched into the lines on his face hidden beneath all the years he'd lived, and Miles felt tears welling in his eyes again. He was going to be Joe's downfall. His end. Something bad was going to happen to him because Miles had fucked up as a kid. And that, that would be his fault too. Just like everything else.

I'm sorry, Joe, He signed, his eyes watching Joe shift, picking up one of the soap bottles from the floor, placing it back on the edge of the tub. The older man shook his head, Your fever is really high. Don't be sorry.

No, The teenager shook his head, feeling tears spilling down his cheeks as he swallowed against the nausea churning in his stomach. He took a slow breath, closing his eyes as he let the water wash over him, hoping the cool water would help clear some of the overheated haze clouding his mind. He swallowed again, I'm sorry, Joe. For what I did… For what I do. My work. It couldn't have been easy raising me. I'm sorry you had to. But I'm thankful you did. I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise.

…

Joe sat there, his eyes fixated on the sleeping teenager as his hand ran over the white stubble on his chin, a worried expression masking his face. Truth was, Joe was always worried about the kid, his kid. Maybe that's what parenthood was, all worry and concern. And pride… there was always pride. But even when he was proud of the teenager, Joe still felt worried.

He knew if his wife was here, she'd laugh lightly and tell Joe he worried too much. But raising a kid was worrying. Being left alone with this other being who he raised mostly from childhood, who he had watched over when he was hurt, sick, drunk, having nightmares, winning track meets, and working for Doc, was worrying. Doc, in himself, was worrying. Joe just wanted the kid to be happy, to survive, to outlive him, and grow up right. Miles was a good kid but sometimes he was just plain stupid. Like now.

The 19-year-old shifted slightly, and Joe leaned forward, running a quick hand through the teenager's messy blonde hair, before pressing his hand against the kid's cheek. He was still really warm, but he wasn't burning up anymore. Not like he'd been when Joe had found him in the living room, half out of his mind in a fevered delusion; not like he'd been when he was in the shower, and not like he'd been when he passed out in the hallway on his way back to his room.

The older man grabbed another washcloth sitting on the nightstand and dipped it in the bowl of water next to it, wringing it out before placing it gently against the teenager's forehead. The kid flinched, but other than that, he didn't respond. Joe sighed, pulling the thin blue sheet further up on Miles shoulders before shoving the comforter off the bed all the way. He didn't want the kid to get cold, but he also didn't want him to overheat again.

Joe stayed there a few minutes longer, his eyes dancing over the scars on the kid's face and torso from when his parents died, the ones lining his shoulder bade from his bastard of a father, the other few from his years with Doc, his eyes landing on the fresh cigarette burn on his wrist. That one was new. The older man turned his chair slightly, crossing his arms, a stern menacing look masking his face as his eyes met Doc's, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room.

The bastard had shown up, ironically, according to Joe, the moment Miles took a swan dive towards the floor. Joe had watched him go down from the bathroom; he'd picking up the remaining shampoo bottles and clothes when he glanced up, seeing the kid smack against the ground. Then, if almost by some shitty magic, Doc came barreling through the door, anger written on his face before he glanced at Joe, then the kid… then the questions started.

Even though he wasn't willing to admit it, Joe was somewhat grateful to have Doc show up when he did. He didn't have a way of getting the kid up, so having Doc carry him to his room was much easier than any idea Joe could of thought of, and it was safer. Doc had freaked, feeling the 19-year-old's temperature against his skin, and once he put him down, had starting rattling off a million questions, whether or not he should call someone.

After that, Doc had sort of just melted into the background, well, after bringing Joe some towels and water. And it was weird that the guy was still here, still sticking around but Joe knew that there was a piece of Doc, maybe even a small piece, that cared for the teenager. He knew it didn't count for much, but after all these years, there had to be something inside Doc that watched out for the kid. Joe had seen this when the guy had driven Miles to the ER the night he passed out while doing a job. None of this, however, made Joe hate him any less.

Why are you here? Joe asked, folding his arms back over his chest as he held Doc's gaze. There was an eerie calm that settled over the guy's features that always rubbed Joe the wrong way. He didn't like how collected and put together he was all the time… not that they had really ever met much. Hell, this last hour was probably the longest they'd been in the same room together. And this was already starting out as the longest conversation they'd ever had.

Doc glanced towards the teenager then back towards Joe, When the kid didn't answer after the 11th call, I-

You came over to beat his ass? Joe cut him off, gritting his teeth, his lips forming a hard frown. Miles had tried to get out once when he was 15, had tried to tell Doc he was done… but that hadn't worked out well for him. He'd gotten beat, then arrested. Because Doc wasn't going to let him go. Ever. Joe just prayed that Miles would come out unharmed. And he waited every time, every job… he waited for that call, for the neighbor to come next door and tell him that the kid had been arrested, or worse, shot.

Doc shook his head, No. I came to remind him of our little arrangement.

Joe snorted, rolling his eyes, and he turned his chair back towards the sleeping teen. He wanted Doc to leave. And yeah, he could have probably just told him to go, but part of him wanted to make sure Miles was alright first before telling Doc to fuck off. If Joe needed to take the kid to the hospital, or call 911, or if the 19-year-old became incoherent again, Joe would need him. Because Doc could do things Joe couldn't, and that pissed him off.

Joe felt a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched before shaking off Doc's fingers and turning back towards the conman. Doc sat back in the chair in the corner before pointing towards his face, I didn't do that. That wasn't me this time.

Then who? Joe asked, stealing another glance towards the bruises on the kid's face. Doc's lips formed a thin line, and he rubbed his hands together slowly before signing, Some jerk. Don't worry about it. He's been taken care of.

Joe didn't ask what that meant. Truth was, he didn't really want to know. Doc had said this to him once before, a few days after Miles had gotten jumped. Joe had turned on the television later that day to see three bodies were found in a public swimming pool close to their apartment; they had apparently drowned. After that, Joe never really asked many questions. Especially ones he didn't want to know the answers to.

Joe sighed, glancing back up, his eyes once again meeting Doc's gaze, Why him?

Confusion crossed the other man's face for a moment, his mind trying to decipher what Joe had meant. He shook his head before gesturing towards the 19-year-old. Joe nodded, anger washing over him, Yes. Why him? Why, out of all the other kids, did you have to pick him? Why did you have to pick my kid?

Doc thought about this for a minute, reading the anger and hatred on Joe's face. He knew by now the older man probably knew about the arrangement, probably knew about Miles stealing his car, so it was a weird question to ask. But it was also weird to hear Joe refer to Miles as his probably because they never really had a conversation outside of their names. Doc swallowed, His guts. I watched the kid steal my car right in front of me, unaware of how much cash was inside the trunk. Followed him around in a Taxi. Watched him dump it. And I was impressed at what he did, how he drove, and how skilled he was at stealing. I saw something in him. I still see it. Every time the kid says yes to a job he wants to say no to, every time he drives when he's sick, hurt, concussed, with broken bones, with a 105 fever, I see it. He's good at what he does. A devil behind the wheel, quick on his feet, and he never backs down. He never runs.

Joe slammed his hands against his armrests, shaking his head as he swallowed the anger rising in his chest. He took a few slow breaths. He knew what Doc meant. It was that determination, that bravery, that stubborn "everything's fine" attitude that Joe saw every time the kid tried to reassure him that he was alright. Every time he came home sick, hurt, concussed or broken. Every time he told Joe he was almost done with Doc. Every fucking time he tried adverting Joe's attention back towards himself and away from him. So yeah, Joe knew what Doc meant. He wished he didn't, but he did. Miles had always had those qualities; the older he got, the more defined they became.

Joe looked up again, If he dies, I'm coming after you. Because he is the only family I have left.

Doc felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the older man cross his arms over his chest. He knew Joe wasn't lying, and for some reason, despite being the one in the room with a higher body count, he felt his calm and collected demeanor slip a little. When Doc had found out who Miles was, when he found out whose kid he was, he'd done some digging on his new foster father. He knew Joe's hands weren't clean either. Just like he knew Joe had gotten into some trouble with the law when he was around Miles age… so the threat, it wasn't empty.

Doc nodded slowly, If he dies, you won't have to. I'll come to you.

Silence evaded the air for a while. Joe had gone back to tending to his foster son, wiping the sweat that beaded against his forehead, on his neck, across his chest. And Doc had pulled down an old copy of Gone with the Wind, a book he'd found made out to some woman named Janie but sitting on the kid's shelf. Normally, Doc wouldn't be caught dead skimming through a book like this, but he needed something, he needed to do something so Joe would stop glaring at him. Personally, he wanted to leave because he didn't do this kind of thing, he wasn't friendly like that, but he also wanted to stay and make sure the best driver he'd ever seen, didn't die. Odds were, he wouldn't be able to find another driver half as good with as much guts. So, finding another person he trusted to do as many jobs as this kid had done, would be a bitch.

Miles groaned loudly, tossing the blue comforter off his bed weakly as he forced his eyes open. The light burned against his skin and he winced, pulling his hand up slowly as the ringing in his ears grew louder. Hands came up to greet him, pushing his arms back down, and the teenager blinked sluggishly as his eyes connected with Joe. His eyebrows drew together forming with the confusion that masked his face, the questions in his eyes as he slowly tried to piece together what happened.

His head was killing him, and he felt out of place, and warm. Everything seemed blurry and distant, hard to connect. He remembered jacking some van then burning himself on the lighter. He remembered Rudy, the mom, and her son. He remembered the blood, and Doc asking him about his face, just like he remembered grabbing the burner phone when he handed over the money. But that was it. That was the last part that was really clear, everything else was mush. He remembered a shower… maybe.

Something moved and Miles opened his eyes again, unaware he had closed them. He glanced towards Joe again, trying to bring his hands up to ask what happened. But Joe kept pushing them back down. The 19-year-old's eyes wandered slightly, and he blinked several times as his eyes connected with Doc, standing a little behind Joe.

"Doc?" The teenager asked, turning his head as he coughed roughly before looking back towards his boss, "What are you doing here?"

"I came over here because you weren't answering your phone, you little shit," Doc said, watching the confusion etch further on the kid's features. He couldn't imagine how many questions were going through the teenager's head right now. Mainly because Doc had never really been to the apartment, except for one incident where he had to help the kid up the stairs when he was 13. Doc placed the book back on the shelf and grabbed his coat that he had folded on the edge of the chair. He peered out the window, frowning as he noticed the rain had started to pick up again. It been raining for the past few days, and if it didn't stop by next week then doing recon on another place was going to be harder.

Miles swallowed, glancing towards the nightstand where he'd had the burner, seeing it gone. He didn't remember putting it somewhere else, but then again, he didn't really remember Doc calling either. Maybe he'd left it in the other room. He cleared his throat, "Oh."

Doc frowned, "Yeah, well, we're a team, you and me. So, remember, next time-"

Miles cut him off, "You call, I go."

"That's right. That's my Baby," Doc said, a small smirk forming on his lips as he pulled his coat over his shoulders, his umbrella from the ground. He glanced up to see the 19-year-old's eyes were still on him, still watching through half-shut lids, waiting, probably begging for him to leave. Doc nodded towards Joe before walking past.

Miles waited for the apartment door to click before letting out a sigh of relief. He wasn't entirely sure why Doc had been here, but as the minutes past and his mind slowly started to clear, he became increasing aware that Doc needed to leave. If he hadn't been answering his phone, he knew Doc hadn't come here on good terms. And the fact that the 19-year-old was probably out for most of it, was probably the only reason Joe was still in one piece.

The teenager coughed again, bringing a hand to his mouth, thankful Joe hadn't pushed them back down this time. He brought one of his legs back on the bed letting his knee smack against the blue wall. It felt good to move, even if he still felt like shit. Miles glanced back towards Joe, You okay?

Joe grinned, shaking his head softly before signing, I'm fine, kid. You scared me though.

The 19-year-old bit his bottom lip, fighting against the exhaustion enveloping his body as he brought a hand to his chest slowly, Sorry.

The older man waved him off, shaking his head again, I just didn't want anything bad to happen.

Miles swallowed again, flinching slightly as something cold and wet pressed against his forehead. If he had the energy or the strength, he would have protested, he would have told Joe not to worry, that he was fine… but the cold rag pressing against his warm flesh felt nice. It reminded him of when his mother used to do this, whenever he was sick as a young child. Just like Joe had done these past 10 years. It was comforting, nice. The teenager felt his eyes drooping slightly, I won't let anything bad happen to you.

Joe tapped the kid's hand, forcing him to look at him, I'm not talking about me, Miles.

The teenager nodded, not really sure if that was a response he was supposed to be giving as he let his hands tiredly fall against his chest. He knew Doc would call again next time he woke. And by then, he was expected to go. That was the deal. Always. Just like he knew that in a few short weeks, he'd be back behind the wheel with some other people he didn't know. Because that was his job. That was always his fucking job. And he still had two more years left.

The 19-year-old closed his eyes, letting his body begin to drift. He felt Joe squeeze his shoulder gently before hearing the wheels on his chair squeak softly as he left the room. The teenager would have to fix that later, but for now, he needed some sleep.