Running from Himself 10

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

Reggie palmed the freshly filled mug of cranberry juice and raised it to his lips, the coaster underneath a faded picture of some lighthouse somewhere. 

Okay. Just another consult. Reggie sat there in his hoodie and a fresh pair of sneakers, across from the old man that looked too familiar to his old memories of a former life. Same energy, different stakes. Only this time, the patient is a ghost and the family thinks I'm the one who killed her. Just... work the problem. 

Only problem was that it was hard to do that in the apartment of someone whose life he destroyed; a cozy, lived-in quiet that felt like a universe away from the sterile marble of the tower or the chaotic energy of Nathan's house. 

"No... uh, thank you... Mr. A-Train. For, y'know. Coming. And for... what you said before. At the... the meeting. About being sorry. It, uh... it helps. A little." Hugh's voice came out low, words carefully chosen like he was afraid they'd break if he pushed them too hard.

The speedster took a slow sip of the juice, even as he frowned at hearing that name. "...call me Reggie. And, nah, Mr. Campbell. Don't thank me. Nothin' I can say makes it right. I just... wanted you to hear it from me. Face to face."

Hugh nodded, staring down into his glass with that thousand-yard stare people got when they were looking at something that wasn't there anymore. "I understand... uh, Reggie. I'm just... excuse me for saying this, not sure why you're here. In my house."

Because your son is about to get in over his head and I need to figure out how to stop that without getting myself killed in the process. "I just need to talk to Hughie. Figured it's best to do that face to face. Cut through the bullshit."

Silence settled between them, not quite comfortable or uncomfortable, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and finally, the old man spoke. "He's... he's not been himself. Since Robin. He's angry all the time. At me. At the world. At... you guys. And the thing is… he used to look up to you, you especially." Hugh finally looked up, eyes tired but searching, trying to explain something that Reggie knew but didn’t really get. "It's just... you see you guys on the TV. Flying around. Saving people. It all looks so... I don’t know… easy, I guess. What's it like? Really. Being... one of you."

The question hit him sideways, so simple and genuine that Reggie actually blinked at it. Hugh wanted to understand the physics of the thing he looked up to, the magic that took his daughter away. And the honest-to-God truth was that Reggie had no fucking clue what it was supposed to feel like.

I'm wearing a dead man's body, living a dead man’s life, and with another dead man’s memories, and trying to save the only group of people that want to kill me. What's it like? It's like being trapped in someone else's nightmare.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. Short, sharp sound that felt completely out of place in the quiet room, but came anyway because sometimes your body reacted faster than your brain could keep up.

"I wouldn't know."

Hugh looked up, brow furrowed in confusion, the quiet moment suddenly charged with a new, unspoken question. The kind of pause that meant someone had just said something that didn't make sense and now the other person was trying to figure out how to ask about it without being rude.

"What do you mean, you—"

The front door slammed open, hard enough to rattle the table Reggie sat at.

"Dad!"

Reggie and the old man whipped their heads around to see Hughie standing there like a mess of frantic energy, eyes wide with fear and fury both. The young man froze in the doorway as his gaze landed on Reggie, and behind him, a shadow detached from the doorframe: a silent Asian shadow with dead eyes and an iron crowbar held loose in one hand.

Shit. Reggie's eyes went wide, cranberry juice suddenly tasting sour in his mouth. Okay. Not the plan. Not even close to the plan. He brought backup. Smart kid. Scared kid. Bad combo.

Hugh stood up, voice trembling slightly as he stepped between them, hands raised like he was trying to calm down two fighting dogs. "Hughie, what's going on? He just—"

"What are you doing here?" Hughie's voice came out high and tight, pushing past his father with that jittery energy that meant someone was about to snap.

Reggie stood slowly, and raised his hands; keeping them open and visible, trying to project calm he didn't feel.  "Look, man, before you say anything else—"

"How did you find us? Did you follow me? Did you put a tracker on me at the tower?" Words spilled out faster the more he had to say, paranoia and panic bleeding into every syllable.

"Whoa, whoaaa, slow down. I called your dad,” Reggie shot back. “His number was in the settlement paperwork and I couldn’t get yours. I just need you to listen. I know you're working against Vought. And I know—"

A bitter, incredulous laugh cut him off, sharp and ugly. "Yeah, you know! 'Cause you burned us! You told them who we were! We're dead because of you!"

The accusation hit him sideways, the sole black man in the room blinking as he tried to track what Hughie was even saying. "Wh-what? No, man, no joke, but I’mma need you to slow the hell down. I'm not even on the Seven anymore. What do you mean, burned you? I'm trying to help you, man."

Hughie took a step forward, almost half-twitching with rage. "Oh, excuse me if I don't believe you! You think a fake apology and a check makes everything okay? You think you can just show up here—"

Movement rushed at the side of Reggie’s eyes. The Female rushed forward, fast even for someone enhanced, predator closing distance with that dead-eyed focus that meant she wasn't planning to talk this out.

"Y-yo, wait—!"

He was already darting back, trying to create space, but she didn't move in a straight line. One moment she was in front of him, the next she was a blur of motion juking to the right. He couldn’t even get another word out before the sound of a sickening, wet crunch drowned everything else out.

Pain hit him immediately; white-hot, absolute, blinding. His leg gave way and he collapsed to the floor, a raw scream tearing his throat raw.

He didn’t need to look down to know that his leg was bent at an angle that wasn't remotely human. A clean, sharp line of bone tented the fabric of his jeans, dark stain spreading around the tear. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh f-

"H-Hughie!” The older Campbell’s voice cracked with horror. “What the hell?!" 

"Yeah, man, what the fuck?!?!" His teeth grit, nausea hitting him in waves on an ocean of pain.  

Hughie stared down at him, anger momentarily replaced by shock at what he'd just watched happen, before grabbing his father's arm with shaking hands. "We gotta go, Dad! Now!"

All three of them scrambled out the door, leaving him writhing on the floor that still smelled like lemon Pledge and old paperbacks. Reggie pushed himself up on his elbows, pain a roaring fire in his leg that made his vision strobe white.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Seven hours later, Reggie shifted on his brother’s couch, trying to find some angle where his leg didn't feel wrapped in concrete. The cast stretched from his ankle all the way up past his knee, and the ice pack had given up hours ago, just a sad puddle soaking into Arana’s brand new hardwood. 

"The doctor said it was a clean break, at least,” the voice of the woman in question came soft from the doorway, where she leaned against the frame with that look. That poor baby expression that made his teeth itch. "Tibia and the fibula. Said it was... impressive. Like a truck hit you just on your leg, he said."

"Felt like it." The words came out flat, aimed at the ceiling as he looked right up at the fan instead of her or his brother.

Nathan stood there with his arms crossed, radiating that particular brand of disappointment that felt familiar as breathing. "So let me get this straight." Here it comes. "You go to the house of the girl you ran through."

"Her boyfriend's dad's place,” Reggie corrected.

"Unannounced." 

“I literally called ahead.”

"To talk to her kid brother..."

"Her boyfriend."

"...who’s part of a gang of CIA-trained hitmen you know is trying to take down your old company." The pause stretched, Reggie knowing that his brother had aimed a raised eyebrow his way without even looking. "And you're surprised they hit you where it hurt?"

Reggie's jaw worked silently, muscle memory from arguments he'd never had demanding he fight back even though he didn’t want to. "I wasn't a threat, Nate. Went in clean. I was trying to do good."

Nathan's laugh came short and sharp, cutting through the tv-lit quiet. "Yeah, you're not the best at it, are you?"

Heat flashed up Reggie’s neck, reactive warmth he felt in his chest almost as painful as Kimiko’s crowbar. "Thanks, Nate. Real helpful."

"What you want me to say, Reg?" Nathan's hands dropped to his sides, shoulders settling into that tired stance. "That this makes sense? You were hopped up on V for the last couple years, running with a crew of psychopaths. You've gotten up to some shit. You don't just get to walk away from that and expect a welcome basket."

"I'm a different man." 

"Yeah, but that shit takes time. People gotta see it." Nathan's voice went quieter, but not softer at all; his brother managing to put the tone of a yell into a half-whisper. "You can't just tell them and expect them to believe it. Reputation's a bitch to kill, dumbass."

Arana's hand found Nathan's arm, pulling her husband back a little. "He's right, Reg. But he's also an ass." She shot Nathan a look that could cut glass. "You tried. It didn't work. Now you heal." Her smile came small and sad, all mom-like. "Get some rest. We'll be upstairs if you need anything."

Their footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving him alone with the phantom ache where his pride used to live. I tried to do good. Went there to help them. To warn them. Had a plan, clean and logical. The cast felt heavier with each thought. And they broke my fucking leg. A sigh left him like a punch to the chest in reverse.

This is bullshit. He stared at that ceiling fan, counting rotations until the numbers blurred together.

"...Motherfuckers."