Author's Note: Apparently I gave Vert anxiety. Cool. This one takes place just before episode 4.

Comments are love!

Part 2: Measured Breathing

Vert Wheeler was no chef. This was an unfortunate truth, universally acknowledged by anyone who had spent any amount of time around him. While he could handle basic stuff, like making pasta and heating things up, the finer points of cooking had always evaded him, no matter how many hours he and his mother put into the kitchen.

Which was why it made absolutely no sense to him that he was making pancakes at six in the morning.

Sure, in theory, he could make pancakes, but with Zeke's diner open around eight, which was when most of the team got up, it didn't make sense for Vert to put in this much effort to something that could be handled in other ways.

Hell, he could have sprung for a pizza party after the next battle zone and called it a win, but, for some reason, it didn't feel adequate.

No, he wanted to make them breakfast. He wanted to be there to see how they were doing for the day. He wanted to make sure they were all prepared for the challenges ahead. Maybe he was being overzealous, over overeager, but it was hard to care.

He'd just been so lonely the last few months.

So goddamn lonely.

Vert sighed and set down the bowl full of pancake batter. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, grimacing. Exhaustion clung to his bones, a testament to the fact that he'd gone to sleep well after midnight and woken up at six in the morning.

He would have liked to go back to sleep, in truth. He wasn't really going to have to make these pancakes for another two hours or so, but he couldn't. Besides, the batter was always better when he refrigerated it first. Of course, that meant Vert could technically go back to bed and wait for the rest of the team to get back up.

Not that he would.

Not that he really could.

The weight of what they were doing was finally starting to sink in, leaving him feeling heavy and exhausted no matter how much he slept. It was as though the whole world was crashing down on him, and he was the only one taking it seriously. How could he train five people who just wanted to compete? How could he keep them alive when they barely listened to him?

He had a sinking fear that there would be a zone where they just didn't listen, where they went off and did their own thing and Vert would be left alone all over again.

That's how it works. Everyone leaves you in the end.

Vert shook off the thought and sucked in a deep breath, bracing his hands on the counter and counting to ten.

One, two.

He was fine. Everyone was fine. His team was safe. His friends were safe.

Three, four.

These were just thoughts. He could overcome them. He always did before. He just had to take a deep breath and count.

Five, six.

They would learn. This was still early on in their training. Of course they were sloppy, of course they were ridiculous, of course they were messing around. He just had to work with it.

Seven, eight.

He wondered what the team would think, if they saw him like this, fighting his own head. Sage had called him fearless. He wasn't, not even close, but he'd never let it stop him. The outside world was nothing. Extreme sports, motocross, indy racing, it was all nothing to him. Death didn't scare him.

Nine.

It was the constant spinning of his own thoughts, stretching out worst case scenarios, that did. It was the idea of being alone again, of losing everyone and knowing it was his fault, that did.

He couldn't take that again.

Breathe, Vert, come on.

He took his last breath.

Ten.

Vert opened his eyes and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax as far as he could.

Fearless.

That was a riot.

Not that he'd ever let them see that. His team could continue to believe what they wanted. They could see him as the fearless, pun-filled, cocky jock with an attitude a mile long. It wasn't that far from the truth, anyway. And what wasn't true? Well, let it never be said that Vert Wheeler wasn't a good actor.

Being a theatre kid tended to do that for you.

Vert sighed and picked up the bowl of batter, covering it with plastic wrap before setting it in the fridge. When that was done, he leaned against the fridge, eyes closed and forehead resting on the cool metal.

"Vert?" Vert blinked, lifting his head off the fridge and looking at the entrance way. Sherman stood there, arms folded across his chest and a frown on his face. The concern on his face was plain as day, and Vert rolled his shoulders, sliding back into leader-mode so smoothly that even he barely registered the transition.

"Hey, Sherm, did you need something?" asked Vert.

Sherman shook his head. "Was just going to the bathroom and saw the light on," he said in a quiet voice. He frowned at Vert, lips pressed into a thin line. "Are you okay?"

"'Course," said Vert, shrugging. He cocked his head to Sherman and gave a smile that felt easier than it should have. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're up at six am and you were leaning against the fridge," said Sherman. Sherman wrinkled his brow before his expression fell to something much softer than before. "You know, if you need to talk, we're all here for you, right?"

Vert walked up to Sherman and clapped him on the shoulder. "'Course," he said, aware that he was repeating words. "C'mon, let's get back to sleep while we still can. Gotta be well rested for fighting aliens."

Sherman sighed as Vert walked past him. "Night, Vert," he said, still sounding worried.

"Night, Sherm," said Vert. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked back to his room, not allowing himself to tense up again until he was safely hidden away behind his closed bedroom door.

Vert closed his eyes and leaned against the door.

Too close.