It's instinct to want to shield himself against the barbs of that hurled accusation, but the truth is that Numbers isn't wrong. He's known where his partner stood from the very beginning. It had been Numbers who'd insisted they find a way out as quickly as possible, and Wrench who'd waffled. He's been waffling ever since, playing househusband and burying his head in the sand, pretending that his inaction will somehow manage to avoid further scrutiny. Truthfully, Wrench shouldn't be surprised by this.

Maybe this time he should listen. Maybe if he'd listened the last time around, when Numbers had wearily insisted they finish the job and get the hell out of town... But he hadn't, had he? Wrench had to be the one to barter for thoroughness, to demand they take their time. And that had been, he thinks, the last worst mistake he'd ever made.

The weight of the memory strikes him so quickly and so harshly he finds the air caught in his lungs. Even though Numbers is sitting directly in front of him, in Wrench's memory the man is dead and long gone. He finds his own hands tensing into fists, and in the effort not to let it all out, something slips past the walls. Wrench shakes his head no.

Leave for where? You forget, we're not from the same place. What if we leave and my future's the one we go back to? Fuck no, I don't want that.