Chapter Text
Tangerine awoke in a cold room against a hardly plush surface. He assumed it was a bed and a damn shitty one at that. He couldn’t bare to open his eyes yet, already squeezing them shut against the bright lights in the room. He turned his head to the side and groaned, which sent a wave of pain down his throat, lingering in one spot on the side that felt strangely numb.
“Good morning, you gave me a damned scare,” A soft voice rang out.
Lemon. His mind called. He couldn’t think of their real names; they were more of a concept than a reality, anyways. He cracked open a bloodshot eye and peered in the direction of the voice.
Sure enough, there he was. Sat in a chair at his bedside, like a guardian angel watching a child.
“Lemon…” He whispered. His voice was hoarse and rough; it was clear he hadn’t spoken in a while. Then, as if reading his mind, he sprung up and strode to stand beside him. He wrapped a large hand over Tangerine’s pale and shaking fist, which he hadn’t even noticed was clutching the blankets with a vice grip. The comfort eased him to let go.
“What happened?” He managed. “Did we fail the job?”
He couldn’t even remember what the job was. His thoughts were so muddy that he barely processed the world currently around him, much less the past.
“Yeah, we did. But it’s alright. We came back.”
He bit back a scoff at the phrase. It felt familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it.
“What was it? The job?”
“Had to get a case and son back to the White Death; we ended up with neither. Some asshat stole the bag while another bastard poisoned the son. It wasn’t our fault.” He bent down and kissed his younger brother’s forehead. “It wasn’t our fault. We did our best. We were useful trains.”
Another memory shot through him, just out of reach.
“We are useful trains,” His brother continued, insistent, “And we’ll continue to be. No matter the circumstances, we’ll always come back.”
“Like trees bearing fruit…” He finished without thinking. He’d heard it before, maybe even from his own lips, but its meaning rang truer than it had back then.
“‘At’s right.” He could feel the recognition pang off of his brother, a glimmer of hope.
“I… I can’t remember anything, Lemon.” The first truth he’d spoken in god-knows-how-long.
“I can tell. The docs said that might be a possibility, like a trauma response.”
“Docs?” He echoed. The reality of his circumstance nearly drowned him. “I’m in a bloody hospital-”
“Ah-Ah-Ah,” Lemon chided. “No worrying. We’ve got it handled; you’re under a fake name here; it’d be best to remember it. Norton Fishbrook.”
“That’s clearly a fake name. Did they really believe you with that?”
“I’m quite the believable liar. Then again, they’re always inclined to listen to the guy with an almost dead body draped over his shoulder.”
He laughed, despite the pain it sent through him.
“And I’m your brother, Charles Fishbrook.”
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, we sound like a pair of schoolboys coming up with adult names.”
The door opening broke their conversation short, and a kind nurse stepped in.
“Mr. Fishbrook? Your husband is here; he’s very worried.”