He didn’t hear the sound of the door opening.

  “What’s with that stupid grin?”

  The familiar gruff voice broke through James’ thoughts. Bke? He didn’t have any business to come here again.

  “Huh? Nothing. Just…” James gnced around, then vaguely pointed at IV lines. “Good drugs.”

  Bke’s eyes narrowed slightly but he didn’t comment. Ramirez entered the sterile room, following Bke. His face broke into a wide grin when he saw James, and he held up a paper bag.

  “?Atención! Special delivery for our local daredevil," Ramirez announced cheerfully, approaching the bed and dropping the bag onto James's p.

  James peered inside with interest. His eyes immediately lit up. “Snacks? You brought me snacks?”

  Ramirez ughed, sitting down on a chair next to the bed. “Don’t get too excited. It’s all from the vending machines downstairs. Thought you might be dying from the hospital food. I've been there – it's torture.”

  James dug into the bag, finding soda cans, chips, a few packages of cookies, and chocote bars. He looked up at Ramirez with something akin to worship. "You're a saint, man. A beautiful, beautiful saint. Actually, you’re officially my favorite person in the agency. Sorry, Bke," he said, not sounding sorry at all as he unwrapped the chocote bar and started consuming it in front of them.

  Bke remained standing, leaning against the windowsill with his arms crossed, scanning the various machines monitoring James's vitals.

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Like I got hit by a car," James replied with his mouth full. "Oh wait, I did! Sort of. Technically I hit the car, though."

  Bke's expression remained impassive. "You think this is funny?"

  "Yeah, kind of." James shrugged, still munching on the chocote. “At least they can put something interesting on the mission report.”

  Ramirez’s face turned serious. “You almost died, chico.”

  "But I didn't," James pointed out. "So technically, mission accomplished on all fronts."

  "At what cost?" Bke asked. "How much is the data worth? Your arm? Your head? Your life?"

  James shrugged. "Hey, it's not like I've got much else going on. One less James Collins in the world wouldn't exactly be a great loss to humanity."

  The room went quiet. Ramirez gnced sharply at Bke, whose expression had darkened considerably. James, oblivious to the sudden tension, fished a packet of chips out of his bag.

  “Man, you even got the good brand. This is top tier contraband.” He struggled to open it with his one hand before helping himself with teeth, gncing at his companions. “What?”

  Bke abruptly pushed himself off the windowsill and left the room.

  "What's his problem?" James asked, turning to Ramirez. "He comes to visit, then bails after five minutes? Why even bother?"

  Ramirez’s jaw dropped. “What’s his problem? He was worried sick about you! Why would you make jokes like this?”

  James stopped a handful of chips halfway to his mouth. For a moment it seemed like he was considering, then scoffed. "Bke? Worried? About me? Come on."

  “?Por supuesto! Of course he was worried!" Ramirez threw his hands up. "He stayed with you the whole time in the safe house. Wouldn't leave even when the doctors told him to. And when the evac arrived, he insisted on flying back with you instead of completing the mission debrief."

  "He yelled at me about protocols and—"

  "Because he cares, idiota! He doesn’t want you to die!" Ramirez's voice had risen, and he made a visible effort to calm himself. "Look, I know he can be... difficult. But that man has lost more people than anyone here. And then you go and throw yourself out of a moving vehicle, and afterward have the nerve to joke about your death? Not cool, brother. Not cool at all."

  James looked down at his hands. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "Then how did you mean it?" Ramirez asked quietly.

  James didn't answer. Ramirez watched him for a moment, then sighed.

  "For someone so perceptive in the field, you can be incredibly blind sometimes." He patted James gently on his leg. "Get some rest. I'll check on you tomorrow."

  Ramirez left, and James was left in silence. The smile was gone, repced by a thoughtful, almost puzzled expression as he stared at the closed door.

  ***

  Later that night, Ramirez found Bke in the agency's sparring room, punching a heavy bag with uncontained fury. Mostly simple movements; straight punches, hooks, low blows, but delivered with such force that they could probably knock a bear to the ground. Each impact echoed through the empty room, making the bad swing violently. Ramirez leaned against the wall, watching silently from the back until Bke finally noticed him.

  "What?" Bke grunted, not breaking his rhythm.

  “There are better ways to deal with your feelings.”

  Bke nded a particurly vicious right hook. ”I maintain combat readiness.”

  “Right. And I’m here because I love watching middle aged men hit things at midnight.”

  "Did you come here just to psychoanalyze me?"

  "No. I came to talk about James."

  Bke nded one more solid punch before steadying the bag. He didn't turn around.

  “What about him?”

  “That comment he made today. Didn't it set off any arm bells for you?"

  “Stupid joke.” Bke’s jaw clenched. “One of many from him.”

  "That wasn't a joke," Ramirez insisted. "I've been thinking about it since I left the medical. His disregard for personal safety goes beyond normal risk-taking. Remember Prague? When he volunteered to be the decoy without body armor? Or Oslo, when he went into that burning building even after we called for retreat? Or test mission in Rotterdam when he jumped onto that cargo ship from the bridge when it was passing under? Afterwards, I asked him how he knew there was a safety net below. He said he didn't."

  "What are you getting at?"

  “There is a pattern. And it’s getting worse.”

  Bke finally turned to face him. His good eye fixed on Ramirez with an intensity that would have made most people uncomfortable. Ramirez, however, had been around Bke long enough not to flinch.

  "You think he's actively trying to get himself killed?"

  "Not consciously, maybe. But his self-worth seems to be, how do you say… en números negativos." Ramirez pushed off from the wall, stepping closer. "And if I'm being honest, I think your approach might be making it worse."

  “What approach?”

  "The cold shoulder, the constant criticism. You show your soft side when and only when he’s half-dead or not conscious enough to appreciate it."

  Bke wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I fought to keep him on the team. He knows I view him as a good agent.”

  “Does he? Did you ever say it to his face?” No answer. Ramirez sighed. “Sometimes I think he does all those stunts just to impress you.”

  Bke scoffed. “That’s absurd.”

  “No. He looks up to you. Do you really not see that?" Bke looked away, but Ramirez already recognized the internal struggle in his friend’s eyes and decided to press further. “What do you tell him? After the mission?”

  “What he did wrong. How he could improve.”

  “And when he does something right?”

  The silence was telling.

  “Ah.” Ramirez nodded. “So he only hears what he failed at, never what he succeeded at.”

  Bke crossed his arms defensively. “I don’t encourage recklessness.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Would it kill you to acknowledge good work? Throw him a bone from time to time? Show him he has value outside of just completing missions?”

  Bke opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

  “Sometimes you’re really acting like Vance. Everything by the book, nothing from the heart.”

  Bke’s head snapped back at him. "You're overstepping," he warned.

  “I see simirities. The way you—”

  In a fsh, Bke closed the distance between them, grabbing Ramirez by the colr and smming him against the wall. Ramirez didn't struggle, keeping his hands at his sides. He'd hit a nerve. Exactly as intended, though perhaps more effectively than he'd pnned.

  "I am nothing like Vance," Bke growled, his face inches from Ramirez's. “Nothing.” His good eye burned with something that made Ramirez regret his words immediately. "That man is a cold, calcuting machine who sees agents as disposable assets. Numbers on a spreadsheet. He would sacrifice anyone for a mission objective."

  Ramirez raised his hands in a pcating gesture. "I didn’t mean—"

  "Five years," Bke continued, his grip tightening on Ramirez's colr. "Five years I followed his orders. Watched him send good people, my friends, to their deaths without blinking. And when they died, he'd just say they 'failed to adapt to mission conditions.' You have no idea what that was like."

  Ramirez pced a cautious hand on Bke's wrist. "You're right. I crossed a line. I apologize.”

  Bke released him, sharply turning away and walking back to the punching bag. He rested his head against the leather material, suddenly looking very tired.

  "I know you're nothing like Vance," Ramirez continued softly. "You actually care about your team. I've seen it. You'd throw yourself in front of a bullet for any of us without hesitation."

  He came closer to put a hand on Bke’s shoulder, then thought better of it and pulled it back.

  “But… James doesn’t seem to realize that,” he continued. “He couldn’t even believe me when I said you were worried. To him, you’re just as cold…” he stopped himself from finishing the sentence, covering it with a cough. “Maybe if you could, you know, show him more clearly that you care, that he’s a good kid...”

  Bke gave him a ft look.

  “I'm not saying to coddle him," Ramirez crified, "but there's a difference between maintaining professional standards and making someone feel like they're perpetually failing. If you keep this up, he’s going to keep throwing himself into increasingly dangerous situations to earn your approval… Until his luck eventually runs out."

  Bke stepped back, running a hand across his face.

  “Now,” Ramirez said, “listen to me: we’ve got six weeks until he recovers. Six weeks of him staying in the base. Plenty of time. I know you don’t have any serious assignments and neither do I. Maybe we could… I don’t know, get into his head a little. Change his mindset.”

  “I’m not his therapist.”

  “No,” Ramirez agreed. “You’re his partner.”

  Bke stared at him for a long moment, then began packing his things into the bag.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “Great. That’s all what I asked for.” he said to already leaving friend, then muttered quietly: "Emotionally constipated bastard.”