The landline rings, a shrill cry shattering the silence of the night. He hasn’t touched the damn thing yet, but Reginald’s hands are already sweating.
The one that every support agent gets after a while, sometimes years, sometimes weeks, sometimes days or even hours. The one he’s had himself a dozen times before, regarding lesser skilled agents from cases long gone by, code names and faces he’s made himself forget.
This is the call that Reginald Crane has been dreading since the day he broke the cardinal rule of ‘never get attached’.
The phone cries again. Reginald shuts his eyes against it.
And then, fumbling blindly with shaking hands, he manages to pick up the receiver.
“Hello?” he begs pleads supplicates asks.
Our condolences, Support Agent Crane, the voice on the other end does not answer. One of your allotted operatives, Agent ID Assignment #124, field name ‘Phoenix’, has been confirmed dead by our S&R team. A casualty report has been submitted to your desk for signature, please return it to the HR department at your earliest convenience.
“Reggie?” the voice on the other end does answer, after enough time passes for Reginald to imagine all of the above.
“Agent Phoenix,” he welcomes collectedly, like he wasn’t near beside himself with worry two seconds ago. “What brings you to call at such an ungodly hour?”
He’s trying for levity. He can tell they need it, if the rattle in their voice says anything. He just hopes to God they’re not hurt somewhere (in the back of his mind, he’s already running through the emergency protocols for off-hour injuries).
Phoenix mumbles something that the telephone loses.
Silence drops like a cold pebble.
“… About what?” Reginald prompts, when they don’t seem to elaborate.
“It isn’t,” he says firmly, softly. “Work like yours is highly psychologically demanding, Agent. Nightmares are common. It’s important to talk about these things so we don’t allow them to control us. And I’ve had dozens of agents before you—whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before.”
Phoenix is silent for another small moment. Then, “I watched you die.”
… Admittedly, that’s a new one.
“It’s funny,” Phoenix chuckles warmthlessly while Reginald’s chest aches. “I die in my own dreams allll the time, and it never bothers me. You get used to it, y’know? But…” The line crackles. “When it’s you, it’s… when I’m having to watch you… and standing there, knowing I could be saving you, or, or dying in your place, or—”
“—Agent,” Reginald cuts in. “You’re getting worked up.”
“Sorry. I know. Um…” There’s a sharp intake of breath down the line, cut off by a half-cough.
“Is there something you’d like me to do?” he offers, stomach flipping in sympathy.
“I—I don’t know. Look, sorry for calling in the middle of the night, but I… I just needed to hear your voice, I think. To know you were okay, that none of… any of that… actually happened. The call didn’t even matter, I just really just needed you to pick up.”
Something about the sentiment tastes familiar.
“Well, do you want me to come over?” Reginald offers.
“… What? Why? You’d do that?”
“Naturally,” he says. “You said hearing my voice helped, then, why not seeing my face? If you have the nightmare again, you can look right over and see that I’m unharmed. That way you can sleep easy.”
And not give me a heart attack by ringing me at midnight and making me think you’ve died, he decides not to add.
Phoenix again mumbles something that the phone doesn’t catch.
Reginald smiles, a small bloom of warmth finally pushing back the vice on his chest. “Of course you would. I’ll be there in twenty minutes—pop the kettle on before I get there, I’m making you tea.”
