D's the one who has it the worst, in the first endless length of time that's taken up with nothing but shock and confusion. The twins know what's going on, you kind of know what's going on (look, you keep tabs on people who'd want to hurt anyone connected to you and you know nobody's planning on coming anywhere near Dave and the rest of your new-ish extended family, which means that it's something to do with them instead of you, which means you were right to start to get suspicious when you heard the story about how Ambrose shook off what you're pretty damn sure was a near-fatal electrocution) Rose might know what's going on, Dave doesn't know what's going on but he just goes into vaporlock when he's in emotional overload, but D...
He doesn't know what's going on other than that Ambrose is gone and nobody can track him. For D it's losing his brother for the second time—no, wait. The third. You killing that bitch (or maybe not killing him, if your suspicions are correct) was just a reiteration of the split that started when one brother went to New York and one went to Texas.
Hoo boy. This poor guy's got more emotional baggage tied up in Ambrose than you have in...actually, you're not going to consider what you have emotional baggage tied to. There's more important things to deal with right now, like getting a confirmation that your suspicions are correct from Hal and/or Dirk. That comes first.
Except it doesn't, actually, because you're not doing it right now. Right now you're crouched on the floor in the hall, humming some bouncy pop song that Davepeta's been playing on repeat for the last week while you work on picking the lock to D's room. The humming isn't really helping the speed of your lockwork, but you're pretty sure that it's some kind of outlet for stress. Like punching the wall or stabbing things, except just vaguely annoying instead of violent.
Hopefully the kids find the guy you'd like to get violent on by the time you get D sorted out. Eh, they probably will. Little geniuses, both of them. Thank fuck they're not what some people would consider "evil" geniuses. You're not morally equipped for the kind of decisions you'd have to make if they were—
Oh shit, there goes the lock. You pocket the picks and straighten up, slipping into the room and locking it behind you again. "D."
"Fuck—" He's on the bed. Not face-down or spread-eagled across it—that'd be better, you think. He's a drama queen at heart, except when he's not, and when he's not shit's probably fucked. No, D's just sitting on the bed, head in his hands and elbows propped on his knees until you say his name. Then he jerks up and twists to face you, and you get a good look at the tearstains already streaking his face. "Wade."
"Yep."
"C—c'mere. Come here." Oh, you don't like how defeated he already sounds, how his voice isn't just waterlogged but shaky, ready to crack or just outright break. Bad sign.
When he pats at the bed next to him you come over and sit where you're told, though. And when D leans into you, you wrap one arm around his shoulders instead of pulling him into your lap. What else are you going to do? "You skipped over anger and went straight to depression, huh?"
"Do—don't you five sta—five stages of grief me." Dammit, he wasn't supposed to see right through you like that. And he wasn't supposed to prove that you're right about where he is mentally just by talking long enough that you can read the tone of his voice, either. "Am—Ambrose, Wade, he's fu-fuckin’—he's fuckin' gone, he's—that fucker, you know wh—you know what happened, you—"
Oh god damn it. You were hoping to keep him in denial about that for at least a little longer. Long enough to get him stable again, anyway. "Unfortunately I do know." And now is the time to...make a joke. Wade no. "I owe your kids a shit ton of money, or I would if I had any of what they paid me left. Funny, I think this is the first time I didn't finish a job."
You weren't really that hopeful that you were going to get a laugh, but you didn't expect D to sob out something too broken to sound like words and jerk away from you, either. He pulls his hands up over his face again and doubles over, and you don't know what to do.
You wish you hadn't said that.
You wish you'd burnt that scumbag's body. You wish you'd cut him apart and stood there in the fire to watch him turn to ash. You wish you'd thought shit out just a hair more, because if you'd treated his body like the people who want to kill you would treat yours this would not be happening
When you look at this from the logical perspective (which Dirk and Rose at least will, sooner rather than later, and even if they don't mean to they'll share their findings with the rest of the family) this is pretty much your fault.
You sit there next to the man you've had one of the most stable relationships of your life with and wonder how long the two of you will last together once you start finding pieces of his brother's body.