Victor Mansfield was dead on his feet. His clothes were in disarray and there were bags under his eyes. I took one look at him, took his hand and led him from the building. The blood from the little blonde girl's wounds still clung to his shirt. The shirt was a loss. The jeans might well survive, but not the shirt. He'd cradled her against his chest for the three hours it took her to die. I hadn't had the heart to take the body away from him even when she eventually died. She was ten. Even if I didn't have his entire life on record, I would recognize his need to save her. I used to feel that way. Until I realized that I cannot save everyone.
The man needs partners. I haven't found the right combination yet. I know it's out there, but not yet. And to be completely honest, I want him to grow into the devious, intelligent mind that's been crippled by pain. I want to watch him bloom with a little attention. I want him to be mine for a while longer. To keep him, I have to tend him, guide him.
Was I ever that young? I can't remember now. I know my mission. To save the world. Maybe, just maybe along the way, I can save him.
His hand is warm and soft. His eyes are ringed with fatigue. He hasn't even questioned why I've led him to my car, not his truck. His eyes close as I start the engine. He brings up a ghost of a smile when he realizes that he's infected my sound system with his favorite blues station. His hands are shaking. Finally, he is showing the signs of his fear. Anything is better than the blankness that met my eyes when I finally lifted the child from his arms and tucked her into a body bag.
He won't see that he saved fifty today. He will see that he failed one.
He needs to know more of the big picture now. He needs to see that his actions count for more than my reports to the Head. He needs to understand that he is not a failure.
He won't be able to see that tonight.
No, tonight I will tuck him into bed as if I am his mother. I will make him eat dinner and shower off her blood, even though he'll protest that he's too damn tired for that. I will be there when he wakes up in tears and falls asleep knowing that I will be there the next time he wakes up and the next. Then, in the morning, I will order him into the kitchen to make breakfast and make him eat it as well.
I see him glance around my apartment in an unconscious mapping of the territory. His eyes note the exits and the positioning of my furniture. His brow crinkles a little and he looks around again. "Where are we?" he asks softly.
"My apartment." He nods and lets it go. He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it on the floor of my hall closet. "Guest room is on the left. There are towels in the bathroom."
"Okay." And that is it. He trusts me. I don't know whether to shake him or kiss him. I never wanted a mindless drone. I wanted a good agent. And to be fair, that is what I have. He is merely the least ambitious and most loyal agent I have ever worked with. I'm not used to agents that don't look at me with suspicion. I shake my head and call for dinner. Something simple from the little shop down the street run by two of our retirees. They also double as security for the street.
TBC