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It would be nice to say that Lurks got to see him looking confident and self-assured and competent. What he got to see instead--assuming, and this was no given, that he was capable of interpreting human body language properly at all--was a jangling ball of nerves and anxiety, of still-shaking hands that occasionally and pathetically brushed fingertips against the back of his companion's wrist, only to withdraw again.

He was obviously not at his most aware despite the tension visibly singing through his shoulders under his coat--they were trading desultory and in Taym's case highly guarded conversation, which distracted also--and it was not until the pursuer was relatively close that some instinct (some sound, some shift in the air, some urgent but subliminal noise from Fionnghal) had him, not turning, but stopping in his tracks and grabbing America's arm, hard, with none of the hesitation that had marked him touching her fingertips to his. In the same instant his knife was in his hand and all this was almost before he turned, and in the act of doing so instinctively put himself between America and whatever it was behind them that had made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

So much for heroism, kneejerk or not: in the heartbeat it took to realize what he was looking at (here among the sand, here among the bodies), his body failed him. He could do nothing but fall motionless, weapon trembling in one clenched hand while the other tightened on America's arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. He wanted to shout some cocky defiant one-liner, to tell her to run and let him handle it (ah, heroism), and instead he found himself saying, in a shaking voice that barely carried far enough: "Don't take me back."

Coming to a skittering stop in front of them, Lurks beamed brightly with his half-exposed jaw, waving animatedly with both hands, a centipede crawling between his radius and ulna, twisting and skittering back up into his sleeve in a puff of smoke.

"Hello!" he greeted, still smiling, tilting his head in confusion. "I cannot. You blew it all up, remember!"

A moth crawled from his mouth, the shadowy thing flying close to the Original and his Fire-hair friend, pulling a face like a child. "I am not a dragon, you are very silly."

He edged closer, his own weapon unsummoned, his wings fluttering behind him, ducked down and bobbling much like a curious snake waved its head. And then he was frowning, cloak curled into his bony fingers. "Original, are you sad?"

Jaw tight, America moved her freehand from his and down to Stryker's pin at her hip, eyes following the moth. Taym didn't react to it, so likely it was safe, and he seemed to think that having a discussion would be wiser than fighting, running, or creating a defense. They knew each other. It made sense to follow his lead here.

She didn't, in all honesty, have a very high opinion of the man's decision making skills. But she'd trust him this time. Just a little.

America's hand stayed on the totem as she began scanning the area for a second such creature.

He'd wanted, of course, to see Lurks' face contort in anger or in grief or the shadowy things that must pass for emotion in such a creature. He'd wanted to hear that whatever he'd done in the Sahara, he'd taken Waits with him, because Lurks had made him beg like a dog and Qarah had made him feel hopeless but Waits had hurt him, repeatedly and unrepentantly and in a way that made Taym constantly fear that he would break his orders and kill him slowly, until he'd come to pray and silently plead that every approaching footstep belonged to Lurks or Qarah, until the realization that it did made him almost weep with relief that all he'd be made to do today would be to eat off the floor on his hands and his knees while some skeletal hand stroked his hair approvingly.

It was this he hated Waits for, more than anything.

In dreams and nightmares sometimes Taym received a beautiful comeuppance. Usually it was several steps and it always started with flaying one of the stupid things, very slowly and strangely bloodlessly, and if he did not wake up first--if the thing's screaming in his voice did not jar him out of sleep--it sometimes beautifully culminated in his killing Lurks. Sometimes slowly, and painfully, until he whimpered and cried; other times with a satisfying lack of dramatics: a weirdly-human, inappropriately-mundane gunshot was a favored ending, or a snap of his skeletal neck, as though a horseman might be disposed of by such banal means. He inevitably woke up aching to find where Lurks and Waits hid during the day, aching to turn his attentions to some flimsy line of research that might put him down in front of the brothers in some situation where he had the upper hand.

A situation, for example, like being well-equipped and at the ready with a competent fighter at his back, and only one of them there. Of having a weapon already in his hand.

He tried to move, tried to lunge, and he could not. He was afraid, and more than that he was seized by some strange compulsion to apologize for what he had done. To crawl over to him, and to say over and over thank you, thank you for letting me go, thank you for letting me live, as though it had been Lurks' decision at all that had delivered him from that place. He wanted to say thank you for not putting him back into the horrible room with no windows and no doors, and for never hurting him, and for handling him gently, and he recoiled inwardly and his fingers loosened on America's arm.

"Your brother was not very kind to me." He spoke, appropriately enough, as though he were speaking to a child. "He was even crueler than you were. Maybe Qarah would be worse, if it hadn't been off consorting with the Worthless One all the time, but I know that your brother was very unkind." His hand slid away from her arm and down, very suddenly, to her hand. It was not a good place for a hand to be in a situation where at any moment they were likely to be thrust into violence. He did not care. Shaking violently, he wanted only some form of human comfort, some touch that would remind him that he could fight and that if he fought now he had the upper hand. Fionnghal was oddly quiet, an agitated deer laying back its ears but too nervous to know yet which way to run.

He realized, dimly, that he would not know what to do if America hurt Lurks, or how to react (because that was his, it was not hers, and for reasons he did not want to touch), and he said: "remember your division."

"It's okay," Lurks said, soothing in the way that his voice got, soft and reassuring because the Original was being good on a particular day. "I know you're not smart enough to understand," he continued, slowly, as if what Waits had given the Original was a great gift.

(To him, it was.)

With slow, methodical steps, to not disturb the pet, Lurks got close enough and moved to hug the skinny creature that had once been his to play with, and unfortunately to share.

"But if I had it my way," he said, dreamy, "I would not share. I don't like sharing." His golden eyes gleamed in their sockets, inspecting America with a sudden suspicion.

"What is a division? Are you one of the Originals too?"

Bony fingers slipped from hers only to be replaced by warm metal links. As Taym wrapped an arm around the thing, Stryker's chain looped round it's neck and she almost, almost pulled because there was nothing about this that was acceptable. But then Taym finally ******** did something she could agree with and for now she could simply hold and wait and keep her actions toward that defense.

"Naw honey, I'm one of a kind," the girl spoke at her weapon's prompting, voice was tight with restraint. Her hands itched to pop its ******** head off. "Taym?" There were a multitude of questions surrounding the way she spoke his name, but the primary one was, are we doing our ******** jobs now?

"You would have, if she hadn't told you not to," he said quietly, the knife still pushed motionless into him. It was devoid of defiance. He sounded as though he were desperately trying to convince himself that this was true. America could not even be there for all he acknowledged her, his name loud in Lurks' mouth (where he'd never wanted to hear it) and silent in hers (where he never heard it enough).

"I have to do my job," he whispered, and it was explanation and apology and plea for forgiveness and a reminder to himself. "I have to do my job and you would have hurt me worse than Waits did, if she hadn't told you not to."

He twisted the knife, hard, and felt something crawl over his wrist where he blood ought to have been, but he did not look down or let him go.