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Cavendish laid in the apartment he and Dakota shared and his mind whirred. Seeing the pistachions once again in a time boggling adventure clearly wasn’t enough, because a single fundamental truth of his world had been turned on its head.
Dakota wasn’t selfish.
Cavendish worried the frayed skin around his finger nails between his teeth for what felt like the hundredth time that night. After their hell of a day Dakota had immediately passed out in his own bed post mission, and they really hadn’t mentioned the bombshell dropped on the Island Of Lost Dakotas. That in life there was only one Cavendish, and almost eight hundred Dakotas.
He stood up, wringing his hands and did what he did best. Pacing. Tugging the skin beneath his eyes and kneading them with tired, wretched fingers- as if he could tug his heavy aching brain out of his skull by the fingertips if he tried hard enough.
Cavendish has worked with Dakota for an untelllable amount of time. Working with someone long enough to see them affected by time- the thing it felt like it was their duty to outrun- spoke true volumes about how well you should know them. You see them change, evolve, you see them gain weight and you can start to catalogue each line on their face to the expression that carved it there. You wake up one morning to realise that the callouses on their hands are no longer fresh and tender but tough and leathered. And that yours are the same. That you’ve grown older by each other’s side.
When you accept the way someone changes and grows, you ingrain that progression into your head.
Cavendish could, for example, catalogue the ways the relationship between the two of them fluctuated and progressed. The early days of Dakota’s almost cocky posturing, and the way cool oozed off of him like a second skin would eventually give away to a kinder, softer man- who’s belly heaved when he laughed. Who took his time with every mission, and didn’t care about dramatics and flair and more for efficiency, and how quickly afterwards he would be able to sleep off the inevitable failure.
Cavendish could see his own growth from what could be called the present. Early iterations of his miserable, stuffy, hyperbolic front, his ingrained belief to be stiff as cardboard with about the same emotional complexity. He thought that he had learned slightly by Dakotas example. Allowed their days off, indulged Dakota with his comforts and shared them. Told him of his regrets and reminiscing with him of good days. Where neither of them were plagued by failure, and instead relished each other’s company.
Clearly, despite all of this- he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Despite the growth in their relationship, despite the fact that Cavendish would definitely have trusted the man with his life, and despite the fact that he cared for him very deeply, Dakota would always have been labelled as one thing to Cavendish. Selfish.
He put his feet up on the headboard. He littered carelessly. He never had money in his wallet, and certainly never paid Cavendish back. He ate far too much, and his table manners were appalling. He was slow to wake up in the morning, and slower to treat their missions with any urgency in the slightest. Dakota was selfish and Cavendish deserved pity for having to put up with his insubordination.
Until he wasn’t. Until, Cavendish learnt that Dakota had been willing to sacrifice his life in exchange for Cavendish’s since the day he died. Until every single moment of tired eyes and unfocused attention pointed to Dakota having witnessed his death moments before, and every empty wallet pointed to money spent in an alternate timeline to buy things for Cavendish.
Until Cavendish realised that he had never been selfish at all, and despite how much he liked to believe himself changed, he never really had.
He had judged Dakota by the standards he judged a schoolboy. His character was determined not by intent or performance, but by table manners and appearance. By posture and work ethic. Cavendish hasn’t changed at all, and Dakota became a different man the moment he met him.
With this realisation in mind, Cavendish knew he would never be able to fully repay the other man. He could not take back every sharp quip towards Dakota being lazy or selfish, and couldn’t change the fact that Dakota had, and would continue to, commit the ultimate sacrifice. And he certainly couldn’t process them in a single evening.
But he could give his friend a hug, and cry an apology into his shoulder.