Frozen Time

There was a separate Dakota for each time that he lost Cavendish— crushed, busted up, ran over, the list goes on and on, but in some twisted sense it got easier each time. Dakota became numb to the sight of his partner, his boyfriend, his fiancé being ripped from his arms. Dying before his time.

Time used to be on Dakota's side; a quick rewind, another Dakota, and everything went back to normal. At least, as normal as it could get while playing God with the space-time continuum. His circle of life looked more like a figure 8, starting over at the beginning every time Cavendish reached the end. Now, stripped of their titles and banned from time travel permanently, infinity had flattened into a single precarious line. How long could Cavendish be expected to balance?

"Dear?"

Dakota felt a hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake. He jolted from his distant thoughts to find Cavendish kneeling in front of him, brow creased with worry that only eased once Dakota reunited with reality. Cavendish sat back on his haunches and gestured at the game board. "It's your turn."

Game night. Monopoly. Right. Cavendish even had the rulebook pulled up to avoid the 'doubles debacle', as he called it. Dakota just called it cheating.

"Sorry," he said. "I guess I was just...thinking."

"Penny."

"Oh, it's nothing important." Dakota took the dice in hand and gave them a little shake, feeling the soft weight shift against his palm. Each day felt like a roll of the dice, and the odds were no longer stacked in his favor. He let them loose onto the game board and watched them clatter into a combined four.

Cavendish was watching intently. "You know, Dakota, you're a terrible liar. Almost worse than me."

That earned a chuckle. It was a fair statement— Dakota almost never lied, only omitted the truth, and his tone usually gave him away. Cavendish, however, couldn't even call in sick for work without Block calling bullshit.

Dakota didn't, however, feel like ruining Cavendish's mood. "I'm...thinking about our mission tomorrow."

Cavendish released a haughty huff. "Our 'mission'," he echoed with distaste. "Calling our assignments 'missions' is like calling stale dumpster bread a four-course meal. Another day of picking up human waste with no hope of actually putting our skills to good use, doubtless."

It seemed Cavendish had accepted the omission of the truth, and Dakota was happy to change the subject. It's not like he wasn't thinking about their assignment, at least tangentially; each mission provided fresh opportunities for his partner's untimely demise. But it was easier to listen to Cavendish talk about their lack of potential than it was to share his own thoughts of potential disaster.

***

Canon Timeline: Abducting Murphy's Law

How did it all go so wrong so fast? What went wrong? Why?

Dakota mused over all of these unanswerable questions while nursing a splitting headache at their fold-out table. The dingy shell of an apartment was empty, save him and his thoughts and Cavendish's stuffed teddy. It felt much warmer when Cavendish shared his presence.

Today, he had woken up alone in a party-city costume, sitting on the roof of their van. All he knew was that Cavendish had used the memory device on him, though for what reason he couldn't be sure. And that, by extension, Cavendish was gone. Cavendish was alone. That thought didn't sit right. It coated his insides like a dissolved pill, turning his stomach sour.

For so long, Dakota had devoted every waking hour to Cavendish. He was the pair of eyes that looked both ways before Cavendish crossed the street, the one that tested his food for fear of poison. He had even convinced Cavendish to let him inject his testosterone every week, in addition to doing his own. Of course, Cavendish has always tutted, protested, shrugged off Dakota's worries, but never flat out rejected him; his patience had always run deeper than his gently scolding mouth. Now, Dakota would give anything to be the subject of Cavendish's reprimands.