There had been no reply, and no reply, and no reply, and Jordan couldn't stand it any longer; he dropped the phone into his pocket, ignoring the battery indicator creeping down into the red, and headed down the hall, because he had made so ******** many mistakes and gone wrong so many times and if this happened and he had done nothing he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He wanted to see them and he didn't want to see them and the grief and guilt choked off all the air in his lungs, and he had never meant to hurt them, he wanted them to be happy, and if Rep went off to die now it would be his fault.

(It wasn't entirely logical, but the grief and regret had risen up to consume all rational thought, and he blamed himself, would blame himself.)

There were voices behind the door, voices raised with hurt and unhappiness, and Jordan stopped before he could knock, because he could hear them and that meant that they were both there, both alive, and Harrison wouldn't let Rep do this. They were fighting, and it was probably because of him. He wouldn't intrude, wouldn't make it worse, but neither could he just leave again. He had failed to show that he cared, failed to be there to protect them, and he wasn't part of this any more, but he could stay here, out of sight, on guard. He slid down the wall beside the door to sit there on the floor, knees drawn up and head down in a miserable ball.

The phone beeped in his pocket, running low, nearly dead, and he hoped exhaustedly that nobody would need to contact him any time soon.