There were several ups and downs when it came to possessing full-on-Fuck-me-Freddy telepathy. Just like everything, it was accompanied with the good. And some of that good was pretty fucking bad.

*

There isn't much that Owen remembers about those few days -- hours upon hours spent driving the humvee through snowdrifts higher than he was tall. But Owen was a stout man, so it didn't really seem reasonable to complain. The top of his cropped hair barely came above the roof of the humvee. Sitting in it, though, was a different story. The leather bucket-like seats seem to engulf him, and Dr. Henry Devlin beside him - with his long legs stretched out, rubbing his hands together - was nattering on about something having to do with---

"Owen, are you paying attention to a single word I'm saying?" Henry had said aloud.

Owen had just grunted, turning the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid skidding on a patch of blind ice.

Henry's hands were starting to feel numb inside his gloves. Probably got frostbite, he calmly thought, laying his head up against the paneling of the door. The humvee jarred violently as Owen ran over what was probably a few tree stumps. "Drive much?" Henry was grinning, despite his previous thought. He could feel Owen's amusement pushing against him like a sealed envelope straining to burst.

Fucking smartass, Owen replied, shooting a glance over at Henry. Henry only smiled more, proceeding to tear off his gloves with his teeth, throwing his hands up to the heater vents. He could feel the exhaustion leaking off of Henry like radiator fluid and water. It was no surprise, and shit, Owen might have encouraged it, when he felt Henry nod off to sleep. He didn't blame him. He figured his passenger had been going non-fucking-stop for two days straight.

It's time to rest, to rest your bones, before the day is gone. To rest your bones and get some sleep, before the Eggman comes.

*

Henry's always hated this restaurant. Too fucking pretentious and they don't serve enough fucking food. The portions are enough for a bird, but Henry ain't no fine-feathered friend, and he wants a god damned steak. When the maître'd had brought out the main entree, Henry looked down in revolt at the gray, wrinkled pancake set before him. This was supposed to be filet mignon?

"What the fuck--?" Henry had started to say, but stopped short when he glanced up at Rhonda, his wife, who was shooting him a sharp glance.

"Can you please keep your damn comments to yourself, just for tonight?" she hissed, unfolding her napkin and setting it across her lap.

Henry felt a lump of bitter shame rise up in his throat, before he snapped his napkin out, laying it down messily beneath his waist. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. Your night, right?" He didn't know why he felt so angry at Rhonda. She'd been promoted and fuck - it was his idea to come out to Maurice's.

Just as soon as his soon-to-be ex-wife was about to spit out a retort, the maître'd returned with a large bottle of the house's white wine. Henry watched with hidden disgust as Rhonda's face immediately adopted a smile, dripping with dirty sap. Both of their glasses were splashed, just enough wine to taste. Henry raises his glass, letting the crystal rim rest against his bottom lip.

He continued watching her, eyes narrowed behind his horn-rimmed glasses - Rhonda dramatically wafting the wine under her nose before taking a sip. Following suit, Henry tipped his glass. The dry, blanched wine slid over his tongue but only managed to scratch the back of his throat.

Beside him, the maître'd loomed over, a dark shape and Henry covered his glass with his hand.

"None for me, thanks," Henry muttered, glancing up. "I'll have just a--- Owen!"

Owen Underhill now stood beside Henry, black fatigues and gray sweater, his sidearm still strapped to his bicep. Henry glanced nervously at Rhonda, then around the restaurant. No one seemed to notice the presence of the other man. Henry's eyes darted back up to Owen, and yep. Sure as fuck, he was still there.

"What -- what are you doing here?" Henry sat up straight, pushing his chair back. But before he could fully stand up, Owen met him halfway, their mouths crashing together. Henry's hands clenched tightly onto the armrests of his chair, his elbows bent and arms shaking. Owen wasn't pulling back, but instead, relaxing, lips parting against Henry's and coaxing him to do the same. Henry was no fool and he quickly followed suit, his tongue sliding into the other man's mouth with a perfect, reckless ease.

And just as quickly as it came, Owen's mouth was gone and Henry was left standing there, half in his seat - lips bruised, swollen and warm. And suddenly, Henry felt his body jolt, his knees collapsing under him, falling down into his chair. Through his chair. Fuck! Where's the floor?!

*

Henry suddenly jumped awake, his head banging against the window of the Humvee. Owen's head quickly turned to look at Henry, eyes wide, before turning back to the road.

"Jesus Christ, doc. You're going to give yourself a concussion." Owen reached blindly behind his seat, producing a large wool sweater. "Lay on this if you're going to use the door as a fucking pillow."

Still shaken, Henry muttered a few word of thanks, balling the sweater up and holding it in his lap. He didn't feel tired anymore, his heart still hammering against his ribcage. The material in his lap was warm and soft, and as he kneaded his fingers into the sweater. Henry shivered, despite the radiating warmth coming from the vents. He still had the taste of wine in his mouth.

And so did Owen.